TRINITY  COLLEGE 
LIBRARY 

DURHAM  ,  NORTH  CAROLINA 

Rec'd  cUik^y/m 


.11 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/gemsofpoetry01rhod 


GEMS  OF  POETRY 

— WITH — 

^otes  and  JlluBtrations. 


Edited  by 
RICHiiRn  S;  RHODES. 


CHICAGO. 
RHODES  &  McCLURE  PUB.  CO., 
1885. 


Entered  according'  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1885,  by 

R.  S.  Rbodes, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


THE  POET'S  STAR-TUNED  HARP  TO  SWEEP. 

E.  B.  Browning. 


^HERE  ARE  IN  THIS  LOUD   STUNNING  TIDE 
OF  HUMAN  CARE  AND  CRIME, 
WITH  WHOM  THE  MELODIES  ABIDE 
OF  THE  EVERLASTING"  CHIME; 

V 

WHO  CARRY  MUSIC  IN  THEIR  HEART 
THROUGH  DUSKY  LANE  AND  WRANGLING  MART, 
PLYING  THEIR  DAILY  TOIL  WITH  BUSIER  FEET, 
BECAUSE  THEIR  SECRET  SOULS  A  HOLY  STRAIN  REPEAT, 

r.  KehU, 


CONTENTS. 


A  Beautiful  Legend    _  -  126 

A  Christian  Hymn. — Alfred  Dommeft  -  368 

A  Christmas  Hymn. — Edmund  H.  Sears-  339 

A  Love  Song. — A.  P.  Graves    246 

A  Soncr  ot  Rome. —Emily  c.  H.  Miller...  216 

A  Woman's  Love  Dream. — Nettie  P.  Houston  „--172 

A  Hundred  Tears  form  Now.^ — Jlrs.  Ford  (Una.)  211 

A  ^ish.—S.  Rogers...    „  266 

A  Free  Show. — Wyoming  Kit    105 

A  Farewell  ....86 

A  Flower  for  the  Dead   381 

A  Singing  Lesson. — Jea7i  Ingelow  388 

A  Little  Word  323 

A  Petition  to  Time.— ^.  Cormcall  _   43 

A  Portrait  -  100 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea. — A.  Cunningham.  40 

A  Musical  Instrument. — E.  B.  Brmvning.  -  133 

An  Angel  in  the  Hou..e. — L.  Jtiunt..   28 

A  Game  Two  Can  Play....  301 

A  Farewell. — Charles  A  ings..  y    .342 

Advice  to  a  young  man. — Ben  Johnson   380 

At  Qhe&s.—Sallie  A.  Brock  207 

At  a  Solemn  Music. — John  Milton   275 

Annie  and  Willie's  Prayer.— i/rs.  >S'.  P.  Snoic  296 

And  Thou  art  Dead.— 5z/ro?i   -  327 

Antony  and  Cleopatra.— Ge?!.  W.  H.  Lytle   287 

Angel  Visits. — Mrs  Remans   .363 

After-Life  of  the  Poet's  Work.— Jo7z«  Keats  379 

Album  Verses. — Various  Authors   395 

After  the  Storm. — Mrs.  Bishoj)  Thompson    365 

Beautiful  Things.— P.  Allerton   26 

Beyond. — Henry  Burton   67 

Bed...    -   88 

Bingen  on  the  Ehine. — Mrs.  Norton  149 

Bugle  Song. — A.  Tennyson   177 

Beauty :   A  Sonnet.— "PF.  ShaJcspere   -.178 

(vii.) 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

Beautiful  Hands.— .¥rs.  Ellen  H.  Gates    235 

Bishop  Ken's  Doxology  .._   308 

Byron's  Finest  Image     356 

Brown  Lark  and  Blackbird   336 

Comfort    49 

Christmas  Chimes. —  Various  Authors.  213 

CouQsel.— i/ar2/      W.  Sherwood   378 

Contrasts  1  ...391 

Dnttmg.—  CaUsta  L.  Grant   85 

Dead. — Alma  Lattin     124 

David's  Lament  over  Absalom. — N.  P.  Willis  .-258 

Death's  First  Day.— Byron    347 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church  Yard. — Thomas  Gray  55 

Example. — ./  Keble  _    70 

Extracts  from  Burns.— i^.  G.  Halleck   .-102 

Extracts  from  "L'Allegro."— J.  Milton   143 

Extracts  from  "  Criticism." — A.  Pope  155 

Evening. — Lord  Byron  _  335 

Farewell  to  My  Harp   400 

Father,  What'er  of  Earthly  Bliss.— ylnna  ^^eeZe     130 

Friendship. — W.  Shakspere     195 

Faith. — Frances  Anne  Kemhle     87 

From  the  Castle  of  Indolence. — J  Thompson   289 

Gillyflowers   89 

God's  Ways   123 

God  Knoweth. — Mrs.  Mary  G.  Brainard  161 

Gone  Before   -  341 

Hymn  of  Nature.— TF.  O.  B.  Peabody   315 

Inward  Music. — J.  Keble    iii 

I'd  Mourn  the  Hopes.— Tom  Moore   78 

I  Saw  Thee  Weep. — George  G.  Byron    324 

Kindred  Hearts. — Mrs.  Hemans   357 

Lead,  Kindly  Light. — J.  H.  Newman   35 

Little  Brown  Hands. — Mary  H.  Krout  51 

Loj^e's  Philosophy.— P.  B.  Shelley  -  114 

Light  and  Darkness   241 

Lines  Written  While  Boat  Sailing  at  Evening. — W.  Words- 
worth  267 


CONTENTS.  ix 

Lines  Written  in  an  Album.— Byron  394 

Majesty  of  Qod.— Thomas  Sternhold  233 

Memories. — Barry  Cormvall  160 

My  Bride  that  Is  to  Be.— J.  W.  Riley...   96 

My  Little  Boy  that  Died.— Dinah  Muloch-Craik  ..280 

Maiden  and  Butterfly   31 

My  Angel, — Emily  Huntington  Miller   169 

Napoleon  at  Rest. — John  Pierpont  .325 

Nature's.— t/oAn  G.  Whittier  _  231 

Night  and  Death.— J".  Blanco  White    -269 

New  Poem  by  Lord  Byron  273 

Never  Despair. — William  C.  Richai^ds  .311 

"No,  Not  More  Welcome."— 2'o?7i  More  _  .234 

Never  Failed  Us   -224 

Ode  to  Evening.— TF.  Collins  293 

Ode  to  the  Tio.ik.—J.  Hogg  -  .165 

Ode  to  the  Brave.— IF.  Collins  -  187 

Our  O  wn.— J/rs.  M.  E  Sangster  ...  -   .  75 

Our  Infant  in  Heaven  -  -  197 

On  the  Death  of  J.  R.  Drake.— G.  Halleck  252 

Over  the  River. — Nancie  A.  W.  Priest  385 

Parting  125 

Patriotism. — Sir  W.  Scott   167 

Preface    .     xiii 

Questions. — Mrs.  Rebecca  N.  Hazard   371 

Questions  and  Answers. — Goethe    393 

Rest.  -       63 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep,  Mother.— ^7.  A.  Allen  (Florence  Percy)  185 

Raia  on  tho  Roof. — Coates  Kinney   304 

Revenge  of  Injuries. — Lady  Elizabeth  Carew  319 

Sabbath  Morning  Thoughts.— ^7.  P.  Brothtvell   181 

Sad— A  Short  Tale  in  Short  Words.—  W.  S.  F..  82 

"  Sometime,  We  Say,  and  Turn  our  Eyes  "   ...  66 

Sunset  with  the  Clouds   . .   HI 

Song  of  Lightning.— (reo.  W.  Cutter  _   .115 

gong  on  May  Morning. — J.  Milton  168 

Song  of  the  Pioneers. — Wm.  D.  Gallagher  353 

Songs. — W.  Shakspere  225 

Sometime. — Mrs.  Mary  Riley  Smith     61 


X 


CONTENTS. 


Sonnet  on  his  Blindness. — J  Milton    152 

Spring.— iV.  P.  Willis  250 

She  Walks  in  Beauty. — Byron..  310 

Saturday  Afternoon.— iV.  P.  Willis.  .331 

Serenade. — Edward  Coate  Pinkney  343 

The  Baby —  Changed  from  the  Scotch  -._270 

The  Bright  Side.— Mrs.  M.  A.  Kidder.    47 

The  Mother's  Charge  1  -..46 

The  Soldier's  T>veam.—T.  Campbell    _  45 

The  Tvf o  k^es.—H.  S.Leigh   36 

The  Master's  Touch.— .H".  Bonar   .  24 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Kide. — Mrs.  Norton   19 

The  Poet's  Song. — A  Tennyson    17 

The  Whistler   18 

The  Rose.--^;.  Waller   il9 

The  Valley  of  Silence. — Father  Ryan  64 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray.— P.  M.  Finch   73 

The  Cup  Bearer.— Pme^ie  Clare    76 

The  Old  Church  Bell.— IF.  H.  Sparks   80 

The  Brook. — A.  Tennyson   93 

The  Nativity.— J.  Milton  103 

The  Youth  Who  Played  Before  He  Looked  119 

The  Two  Villages. — Rose  Terry  Cooke   120 

The  Lover. — C.  Patmore--  -  .122 

The  Dying  Gladiator.— Lord  Byron  135 

The  Teacher's  Dream.— TF.  ^.  Vendble  .136 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters.— Tom  Moore.  -  140 

The  Lost  Chord. — Adelaide  A.  Proctor  141 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead.— OHara  ..189 

The  True  Poet. — From  Bailey's  Festus  ..192 

The  Finest  English  Epigram.— Dr  Doddridge  196 

"The  Precious  Gift  of  Song."— Miss  Chitwood  203 

The  Shell.— ^.  Tennyson  209 

The  Bridge.— Henry  W.  Longfellow  .221 

The  Sabbath  of  the  Soul.— Mrs.  Barbauld  ..228 

The  Bower  of  Bliss— Spenser  229 

The  Free  Mind:   A  Sonnet,— ill.  L.  Garrison  -  242 

The  Pride  of  Battery  B    -  243 

The  Source  of  Happiness.— Cartos  Wilcox  .247 

The  Mysterious  Music  of  Ocean   --248 

The  Winged  Worshippers.- C/iarZes  Sprague  261 


CO>^TENTS.  Xi 

The  Isle  of  the  Long  Ago.— S.  F.  Taylor  ..-  263 

The  Dying  Wife.— iJ.  M.  T...  271 

The  Song  of  Steam. — George  W.  Gutter   277 

The  Departure  of  the  Swallow.— T^^??i.  Howitt..  220 

The  Burial  of  Moses.— .Urs.  C.  F.  Alexander   282 

The  Old  Cottage  Clock  321 

The  Evening  Cloud. — John  Wilson   291 

The  Alpine  Flowers. — Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney   -.333 

The  Old  Farm  Gate.—Eugene  J.  Hall.....  351 

The  TTater  Lillv.— J/rs.  Remans    359 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib. — Byron  -  361 

The  Sacred  Harp.— :if?'s.  Hemans   872 

The  Silent  Children.— ^;Zzza&e^7i  Stuart  Phelps  375 

The  Everlasting  Memorial. — Horatius  Bonar  ---  387 

The  Farewell  to  My  Harm. — Tom  Moore   400 

The  Flowers' Year  367 

The  Old  Canoe.— Emily  R.  Page  --285 

The  Beautiful  City.—/.  W.  Riley   68 

The  Touches  of  Her  Hands.—/,  ir.  Riley  -  44 

The  Child  of  a  King.-Hattie  E.  Buell  --  200 

Two  Views  of  Living. — Lord  Byron :  Mrs.  BarhavM   -  -  -  25 

To  Seneca  Lake. — /.  C.  Percival  -  -  -  23 

Tired. — Mrs.  Helen  Burnside   32 

Three  Characteristic  Epitaphs  95 

Two  Pictures. — Marian  Douglas  101 

Till  Death  Us  Part.— Dea?i  Stanley   --107 

To  the  Mocking  Bird.— i^.  H.  Wilde   113 

Two  Lovers. — George  Eliot  -  -  -  153 

They  Went  a  Fishing.-  -  -179 

Thanatopsis.—  W.  C.  Bryard   -  -254 

To  the  Lady  Anne  Hamilton.— TF.  R.  Spenser.  260 

There  Comes  a  Time   —  --  -  - 265 

There  Be  None  of  Beauty's  Daughters.— 5?/ ?'o?i-  -  306 

To  the  Organ.— C.  P.W.    309 

To  the  Evening  Wind.— Tr.  C.  Bryant  -313 

Things  of  Beauty. — John  Keats   -   389 

Through  Night  to  Light.— J..  Laighton  ---  392 

Thy  Voice.— P.  B.  Marston  --292 

Unheed  Psalms     -  33 

Under  Milton's  Picture.— /o/i.'i />r?/de/i   2G3 


xii  CONTENTS. 

Vital  Spark  of  Heavenly  Flame.— A.  Pope  307 

Weary,  Lonely,  Restless,  Homeless.— Fa^/ier  Ryan  -  38 

Who  Has  Robbed  the  Ocean  Cave  ?~John  Shaw   - .  99 

"When  to  the  Sessions." — W.  Shakspere  -  188 

Woman.— S.  Barret   199 

Which  Shall  It  Be?— ^.  A.  Allen  204 

"  When  the  Song's  Gone  "    218 

Woman's  Voice. — Edivin  Arnold  237 

We  Shall  Know. — Annie  Herbert...  -  239 

We  Have  Seen  His  Star. . .  _   370 

Who  Will  Care  ?   268 

What  is  Noble  ?~Gharles  Swain   317 

Wyoming. — Fitz-Oreene  Halleck    344 

With  the  Stream  .303 

You  Remember  It,  Don't  You  ?—Thos.  H.  Bayley   318 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS, 


Alexander    282 

kUen   204 

Allerton   26 

Arnold  237 

Bailey  192-318 

Barbauld   25-228 

Barret  199 

Bonar  2i-387 

Brainard   161 

Brock  207 

Browning   133 

Brothwell   181 

Bryant   213.254 

Buell   200 

Burnside   32 

Burton  -   67 

Byron . .  135-273-306-310-324-327 
335-347-361-394. 

Campbell   45 

Carew   319 

Chitwood   203 

Clare   76 

Collins  -   187-293 

Cooke  120 

CnrnwaU  -  160 

Craik  ^  280 

Cntter  115-277 

Cunningham   40 

Doddridge  196 

Dommett  --   368 

Douglass  1*^1 

Dry  den  236 

Eliot  153 


Finck   73 

Ford   211-242 

Gallagher  -  353 

Garrison   24^ 

Gates   .--  235 

Goethe  398 

Gray    55 

Graves   246 

Grant   85 

Hall     351 

Halleck    102-252-344 

Herbert   239 

Hemans  857-359-363-372 

Houston   172 

Howitt  -  220 

Hazard  871 

Hogg   165 

Hunt   28 

Johnson   330 

Keble  iii-70 

Keats   379-389 

Kemble   87 

Kidder--   47 

Kinney---  -  304 

Kingsiey   342 

Krout   51 

-Kit"--  

Laighton  392 

Leigh   36 

Longfellow   221 

Lytle  287 

Marston  292 


[xiu.) 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


Miller   169-216 

Hilton   103-143-152-168-27D 

Moore    78-140-234-400 

Newman.-    35 

Korton.-..  19-149 

O'Hara  189 

Page  ,  285 

Patmore   122 

Peabody   315 

Percy   185 

Percival   23 

Pinkney  343 

Pierpont  325 

Pope    159-307 

Phelps  375 

Priest...   385 

Proctor  __  14| 

Richards  _  311 

Riley   68-96 

Rogers...-   266 

Ryan   38 

Sangster..  ,   75 

Scott   167 

Sears    339 

Shakspcre   178-188-195-225 


Shaw---   99 

Sherwood  378 

Shelly   114 

Sigourney  -   333 

Snowe  296 

Spenser....    229-260 

Sprague---   261 

Swain..-'  317 

Sparks   80 

Stanley  107 

Sternhold  233 

Steele   130 

Taylor..  263 

Tennyson  -  -  -  17-93-177-209 

Thompson  289-365 

"Una"  211 

Waller   29 

Whittier.  231 

White---  269 

Willis   331-258 

Wilcox    247 

Wilson   291 

Wordsworth  267 

Wilde   113 

Venable  136 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Bay  of  Naples   feoxtispiece, 

"  On  Thy  Fair  Bosom  Waveless  Stream"   22 

"  Touch  us  Geatly,  Time"  -   42 

"iSTo  Children  Eun  to  Lisp  their  Sire's  Return"   54 

"No  More  Shall  the  War  Cry  Seyer'   72 

The  First  Reporter   -  92 

"  A  Shadowy  Landscape  Dipped  in  G-old"   110 

"  As  a  Reed  with  the  Reeds  of  the  River"  132 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine  148 

Musical  Cherub  Soar  Singing  Away  164 

Minnehaha  Falls.    "And  the  Cataract  Leaps  in  Glory"   176 

Mother  Come  Back  from  the  Echoless  Shore   184 

Prairie  Songsters    202 

"Light  on  Thy  Hills,  Jerusalem!"  -338 

The  Old  Farm  Gate  ....  --3c0 

"  Awe-struck  the  Silent  Children  Hear  374 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


THE  POET'S  SONG. 


A.  TENNYSON. 

HE  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 

He  passed  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat. 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place. 
And  chanted  a  melody  low  and  sweet. 
That  made  the  wild  swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 
And  the  lark  di'op  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray. 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak. 
And  stared  with  his  foot  on  the  prey. 
And  the  nightingale  thought,   "  I  have  sung 
many  songs, 
But  never  a  one  so  gay. 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 
When  the  years  have  died  away." 


THE  WHISTLER. 


"You  have  heard,"  said  a  youth  to  his  sweetheart  who 
stood, 

While  he  sat  on  a  corn- sheaf  at  daylight's  decline — 
"  You  have  heard  of  the  Danish  boy's  whistle  of  wood;, 
I  wish  that  Danish  boy's  whistle  was  mine." 

"  And  what  would  you  do  with  it?    Tell  me,"  she  said, 
While  an  arch  smile  played  over  her  beautiful  face, 

"  I  would  blow  it,"  he  answered,  "  and  then  my  fair  maid 
Would  fly  to  my  side  and  there  take  her  place." 

"  Is  that  all  you  wish  for  ?    That  may  be  yours 
Without  any  magic,"  the  fair  maiden  cried  ; 

"  A  favor  so  light,  one's  good  nature  secures," 
And  she  playfully  seated  herself  by  his  side. 

I  would  blow  it  agfdn,"  said  the  youth,  "  and  a  charm 
Would  work  so  that  not  even  modesty's  cheek 
Would  be  able  to  keep  from  my  neck  your  fine  arm  !  " 
She  smiled  as  she  laid  her  fair  arm  'round  his  neck. 

*'  Yet  once  more  would  I  blow,  and.  the  magic  divine 
Would  bring  me  a  third  time  an  exquisite  bliss — 

You  would  lay  your  fair  cheek  to  this  brown  one  of  mine, 
And  your  lips  stealing  past  would  give  me  a  kiss." 

The  maiden  laughed  out  in  her  innocent  glee — 

"  What  a  fool  of  yourself  with  a  whistle  you'd  make; 

For  only  consider  how  silly  'twould  be 

To  sit  there  and  whistle  for — what  you  might  take." 

18 

— Northwestern  Agricultmnst. 


THE  KING  OF  DENMAKK'S  RIDE. 


MRS.  NORTON. 

ORD  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 
(Hurry!) 

That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring; 

(O  ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown- jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl: 
And  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  is  dying! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed ! 
(Hurry!) 

Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need; 

(O  ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank: 
Worn-out  chargers  staggered  and  sank; 
Bridles  were  slackened,  and  girths  were  burst; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  King  rode  first, 

For  his  rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one; 
(Hurry!) 

They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  homeward  gone; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying! 
The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful  child; 

19 


GEMS  or  POETRY. 


Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din, 
Then  he  dropped;  and  only  the  King  rode  in 
Where  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying! 

The  King  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn; 
(Silence!) 

No  answer  came;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  gray  morn, 
-  Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide; 
None  welcomed  the  King  from  that  weary  ride ; 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 
Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary. 
The  King  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest, 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eying. 
The  tears  gushed  forth  which  he  strove  to  check; 
He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck: 
"  O  steed,  that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying! " 


"  On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream." 


22 


TO  SENECA  LAKE. 


J.    G.  PERCIVAL. 

X  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail. 
And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  do^Yn  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 
The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 
i        And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam. 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north  wind,  heave  their  foam^ 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar. 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  miiTor  spreading  wide. 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side ! 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 
A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 

.And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wi^eaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

O,  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar. 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er  ! 


THE  MASTER'S  TOUCH. 


H.  BONAR. 

N  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard; 

In  the  rough  marble  beauty  hides  unseen: 
To  make  the  music  and  the  beauty,  needs 

The  master's  touch,  the  sculptor's  chisel  keera 

Great  Master,  touch  us  with  thy  skillful  hand; 
Let  not  the  music  that  is  in  us  die  ! 
f        Great  Sculptor,  hew  and  polish  us ;  nor  let, 
Hidden  and  lost,  thy  form  within  us  lie ! 

Spare  not  the  stroke  .!  do  with  us  as  thou  wilt ! 

Let  there  be  naught  unfinished,  broken,  marred;, 
Complete  thy  purpose,  that  we  may  become 

Thy  perfect  image,  thou  our  God  and  Lord  I 


TWO  VIEWS  OF  LPyTN'O, 


Mt  life  is  in  the  sere  and  velloTv  leaf. 

The  flowers  and  fiiuts  of  love  are  gone; 
The  wonn.  the  canker,  and  the  giief 
Ai'e  mine  alone. 

The  fii'e  that  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
Xo  torch  is  lighted  at  its  blaze — 
A  fimeral  pile. 

— Lord  Byron. 

Life!  I  knoAv  not  what  thou  art. 
But  knovr  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  when,  or  how.  or  where  we  met. 
I  ovm  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 

Life!  we've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 
'Tis  hard  to  pan  when  friends  are  dear. — 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 
— Then  steal  awav.  give  little  warning. 

Choose  thine  ow;n  time. 
Say  not  Good  Night. — but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good  Morning. 

— .ITr.*.  Bjroauld. 


BEAUTIFUL  THINGS. 


ELLEN  P.  ALLEETON. 


Gg:!lEAUTIFUL  faces  are  those  that  wear, 
It  matters  little  if  dark  or  fair — 
Wholesouled  honesty  printed  there. 

Beautiful  eyes  are  those  that  show, 
Like  crystal  panes  where  hearthfires  glow, 
Beautiful  thoughts  that  burn  below. 

Beautiful  lips  are  those  whose  words 
Leap  from  the  heart  like  songs  of  birds, 
Yet  whose  utterance  prudence  girds. 

Beautiful  hands  are  those  that  do 

Work  that  is  earnest  and  brave  and  true, 

Moment  by  moment  the  long  day  through. 

Beautiful  feet  are  those  that  go 
On  kindly  ministries  to  and  fro, 
Down  lowliest  ways  if  God  wills  it  so. 

Beautiful  shoulders  are  those  that  bear 
Ceaseless  burdens  of  homely  care, 
With  patient  grace  and  daily  prayer. 

Beautiful  lives  are  those  that  bless, 

Silent  rivers  of  happiness. 

Whose  hidden  fountains  but  few  can  guess. 

26 


BEArTIFUL  THINGS- 


27 


Beautiful  tTviliglit.  at  set  of  sun  : 
Beautiful  goal,  "v-ith  race  well  run  : 
Beautiful  rest,  with  work  well  done. 

Beautiful  graves,  where  gi'asses  creep. 
"Where  brown  leaves  fall,  where  di'ifts  lie  deep 
Over  worn-out  hands  :  oh.  beautifiU  sleep  1 


AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE. 


L.  HUNT. 

OW  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who  have 
never 

Been  dead  indeed,  —as  we  shall  know  forever. 
Alas!  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths,  angels,  that  are  to  be, 
Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air, — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 


s 


28 


THE  KOSE. 


E.  WALLER. 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  on  rae, 

That  now  she  knows, 
AVhen  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  ba 


Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

29 


30 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired, 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired. 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she, 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  raie 

May  read  in  thee. 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 

(A  lady  of  Cambridge,  England,  loaned  Waller's  poems  to  H. 
K.  White,  who  added  the  following  stanza  to  the  above  poem; 
thus  illustrating  the  difference  between  earthly  and  heavenly 
inspiration:) 

"  Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise; 

And  teach  the  maid 
That  goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies; 
That  Virtue  lives  when  Beauty  dies." 


IMATDEX  AXD  BrXTEEFLY. 


AVitliin  the  sun-flecked  sliadows  of  a  forest  glade, 
Seeking  for  "sWldwood  flowers,  a  little  maid 
Sang  to  her  happy  heart,  as  to  and  fi'o 
She  wandered  'mid  the  swaying  gi^asses  low  : 
AYhen  suddenly  a  brilliant  butterfly 
Flashed,  like  a  jewel  in  the  sunshine,  by 
And,  darting  swiftly  now  that  way,  now  this, 
Alighted  on  her  lips  and  stole  a  kiss. 

'■Forgive  me.  sweet he  crted.     "I  swear  to  yon. 
I  only  meant  to  spy  a  di'op  of  dew 
From  out  the  fi^ac^rant  chalice  of  these  roses  brio-ht. 
But.  hoveiino^  undecided  where  to  'li^ht. 
I  saw  youi'  lily-face  uplifted  here, 
And  thotight  youi'  red,  red  lips  were  rosebuds,  deai' 

Tossing  her  suimy  ciuis.  she  raised  her  head, 
As,  with  an  air  of  queenly  grace,  she  said: 
This  once  I  will  forgive  :  but,  pray,  beware 


31 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

How  often  you  mistake  for  blossoms  rare 
A  maiden's  lips  !  "    She  watched  him  flutter  near. 
To  think  mine,  roses,  you  are  welcome,  dear. 
But,"  with  a  merry  glance,  half  arch,  half  shy, 
They  do  not  bloom  for  every  butterfly!  " 


"TIRED." 


MISS    HELEN  BURNSIDE. 

"Tired!"  Oh  yes!  so  tired,  dear. 

The  day  has  been  very  long; 
But  shadowy  gloaming  draweth  near, 

'Tis  time  for  the  even  song, 
I'm  ready  to  go  to  rest  at  last, 

Ready  to  say  "  Good  night:" 
The  sunset  glory  darkens  fast, 

To-morrow  will  bring  me  light. 

It  has  seemed  so  long  since  morning-tide, 

And  I  have  been  left  so  lone. 
Young  smiling  faces  thronged  my  side, 

When  the  early  sunlight  shone; 
But  they  grew  tired  long  ago, 

And  I  saw  them  sink  to  rest, 
With  folded  hands  and  brows  of  snow. 

On  the  green  earth's  mother  breast. 

Sing  once  again,  "Abide  with  me," 

That  sweetest  evening  hymn ; 
And  now  "  Good  night!"  I  cannot  see, 

The  light  has  grown  so  dim ; 
"Tired!"  Ah,  yes,  so  tired,  dear, 

I  shall  soundly  sleep  to-night. 
With  never  a  dream,  and  never  a  fear 

To  wake  in  the  morning  light. 


UNHEEDED  PSALMS. 


God  hath  His  solitudes,  unpeopled  yet, 

Save  by  the  peaceful  life  of  bird  and  flower, 

"Where,  since  the  world's  foundation,  He  hath  set 
The  hiding  of  His  power. 

Year  after  year  His  rains  make  fi^esh  and  green 
Lone  wastes  of  prairies,  where,  as  daylight  goes, 

Legions  of  bright- hued  blossoms  all  unseen 
Their  carven  petals  close. 

Year  after  year  unnumbered  forest  leaves 
Expand  and  darken  to  their  perfect  prime; 

Each  smallest  gro^vth  its  destiny  achieves 
In  His  appointed  time. 

Amid  the  strong  recesses  of  the  hills, 

Fixed  by  His  word,  immutable  and  calm, 

The  mm-muring  river  all  the  silence  fills 
With  its  unheeded  psalm. 

From  deep  to  deep  the  floods  lift  up  their  voice, 
Because  His  hand  hath  measui'ed  them  of  old; 

The  far  outgoings  of  the  morn  rejoice 
His  wonders  to  unfold. 


33 


3 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


The  smallest  cloudlet  wrecked  in  distant  storms, 
That  wanders  homeless  through  the  summer 
skies, 

Is  reckoned  in  His  purposes,  and  forms 
One  of  His  argosies. 

Where  the  perpetual  mountains  patient  wait, 
Girded  with  purity  before  His  throne, 

Keeping  fi'om  age  to  age  inviolate 
Their  everlasting  crown; 

Where  the  long- gathering  waves  of  ocean  break 
With  ceaseless  music  o'er  untrodden  strands, 

From  isles  that  day  by  day  in  silence  wake, 
From  earth's  remotest  lands. 

The  anthem  of  His  praise  shall  uttered  be; 
All  works  created  on  His  name  shall  call, 
And  laud,  and  bless  His  holy  name,  for  He 
Hath  pleasure  in  them  all. 


LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT. 


J.   H.  NEWMAN. 

Lead,  kindly  ligtit,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on; 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 

Lead  Thou  me  on. 
Keep  thou  my  feet;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path;  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on. 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will:     remember  not  past  years  J 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sui'e  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone. 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
AATiich  I  have'  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile 

Meanwhile,  along  the  narrow,  rugged  path 

Thyself  hast  trod, 
Lead,  Savior,  lead  me  home  in  childlike  faith. 

Home  to  my  God, 
To  rest  forever  after  earthly  strife, 
In  the  calm  lio-ht  of  everlastinsj^  life. 

35 


THE  TWO  AGES. 


H.    S.  LEIGH. 

Folks  were  happy  as  days  were  long, 

In  the  old  Arcadian  times: 
When  life  seemed  only  a  dance  and  song 

In  the  sweetest  of  all  sweet  climes. 
Our  world  grows  bigger,  and  stage  by  stage, 

As  the  pitiless  years  have  rolled, 
We've  quite  forgotten  the  Golden  Age, 

And  come  to  the  Age  of  Gold. 

Time  went  by  in  a  sheepish  way 

Upon  Thessaly's  plains  of  yore. 
In  the  nineteenth  century  lambs  at  play 

Mean  mutton,  and  nothing  more. 
Our  swains  at  present  are  far  too  sage 

To  live  as  one  lived  of  old: 
So  they  couple  the  crook  of  the  Golden  Age 

With  a  hook  in  the  Age  of  Gold. 

From  Cory  don's  reed  the  mountains  round 

Heard  news  of  his  latest  flame; 
And  Tityrus  made  the  woods  resound 

With  echoes  of  Daphne's  name. 
They  kindly  left  us  a  lasting  guage 

Of  their  musical  art,  we're  told: 


36 


GEMS   OF  POETRY. 


37 


And  the  Pandean  pipe  of  the  Golden  Age 
Brinofs  mirth  to  the  Ao;e  of  Gold. 

Dwellers  in  huts  and  in  marble  hall  — 
From  shepherdess  up  to  queen — 

Cared  little  for  bonnets,  and  less  for  shawl, 
And  nothing  for  crinoline. 

But  now  simplicity's  not  the  rage, 
And  it's  funny  to  think  how  cold 

The  di^ess  they  wore  in  the  Golden  Age 
•  "Would  seem  in  the  Age  of  Gold. 

Electric  telegraphs,  printing,  gas, 

Telephones,  balloons  and  steam, 
Ai'e  little  eA^ents  that  have  come  to  pass 

Since  the  days  of  the  old  regime : 
'  And  in  spite  of  Lempriere"s  dazzling  page, 

I'd  give — though  it  might  seem  bold — 
A  hundred  years  of  the  Golden  Age 

For  a  year  of  the  Age  of  Gold. 


WEAKY,  LONELY,  EESTLESS,  HOMELESS. 


FATHER  RYAN. 

Weary  hearts!  weary  hearts!  by  cares  of  life  oppressed, 
Ye  are  wandering  in  the  shadows,  ye  are  sighing  for  the 
rest; 

There  is  darkness  in  the  heavens,  and  the  earth  is  bleak 
below. 

And  the  joys  we  taste  to-day  may  to-morrow  turn  to  woe. 
Weary  hearts!  God  is  rest. 

Lonely  hearts!  lonely  hearts!  'tis  but  a  land  of  grief; 
Ye  are  pining  for  repose,  ye  are  longing  for  relief; 
What  the  world  hath  never  given,  kneel  and  ask  of  God 
above. 

And  your  grief  shall  turn  to  gladness  if  you  lean  upon  His 
love. 

Lonely  hearts!  God  is  love. 

Eestless  hearts!  restless  hearts!  ye  are  toiling  night  and 
day, 

And  the  flowers  of  life,  all  withered,  leave  but  thorns  along 
your  way; 

Ye  are  waiting,  ye  are  waiting  till  your  toilings  here  shall 
cease, 

And  your  ever-restless  throbbing  is  a  sad,  sad  prayer  for 
peace. 

Bestless  hearts!  God  is  peace. 


WEAKY,   LONELY,   RESTLESS,  HOMELESS. 


39 


Broken  hearts !  broken  hearts !  ye  are  desolate  and  lone, 
And  low  voices  from  the  past  o'er  your  present  ruins  moan; 
In  the  sweetest  of  your  pleasures  there  was  bitterest  alloy, 
And  a  starless  night  hath  followed  on  the  sunset  of  your 

joy- 
Broken  hearts!  God  is  joy. 

Homeless  hearts!  homeless  hearts!  through  the  dreary, 
dreary  years. 

Ye  are  lonely,  lonely  wanderers,  and  your  way  is  wet  with 
tears ; 

In  bright  or  blighted  places,  wheresoever  ye  may  roam. 
Ye  look  away  from  earthland.  and  ye  murmur,  "  Where  is 
Home?" 

Homeless  hearts!  God  is  home. 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA 


A.  CUNNINGHAM. 

WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast,- — 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,   my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  our  lee. 

O     for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry ; 
But  give  to  me  the  swelling  breeze. 

And  white  waves  heaving  high, — 
The  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  a  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
And  hark!  the  music,  mariners, 

The  wind  is  wak'ning  loud, — 
The  wind  is  wak'ning  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free ; 
The  hollow  oak  our  palace  is. 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

40 


A  PETITION  TO  TIME. 


B.  CORNWALL. 


Touch  US  gently,  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,— as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  di'eam  ! 
Humble  voyagers  are  we, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three, — 
(One  is  lost,-an  angel  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead  !) 

Touch  us  gently.  Time  ! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings; 
Our  ambition,  oui'  content. 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we, 
O'er  life's  dim,  unsounded  sea. 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ; — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 


43 


THE  TOUCHES  OF  HER  HANDS. 

J.   W.  RILEY. 


HE  touches  of  her  hands  are  like  the  fall 

Of  velvet  snowflakes  ;  like  the  touch  of  down 
The  peach  just  brushes  'gainst  the  garden  wall; 
The  flossy  fondlings  of  the  thistle -wisp 

Caught  in  the  crinkle  of  a  leaf  of  brown 
The  blighting  frost  has  turned  from  green  tc 
crisp. 

Soft  as  the  falling  of  the  dusk  at  night, 
The  touches  of  her  hands,  and  the  delight— 

The  touches  of  her  nands  ! 
The  touches  of  her  hands  are  like  the  dew 
That  falls  so  softly  down  no  one  e'er  knew 
The  touch  thereof  save  to  lovers  like  to  one 
Astray  in  lights  where  ranged  Endymion. 

Oh,  rarely  soft,  the  touches  of  her  hands, 
As  drowsy  zephyrs  in  enchanted  lands  ; 

Or  pulse  of  dying  fay  ;  or  fairy  sighs  ; 
Or — in  between  the  midnight  and  the  dawn. 
When  long  unrest  and  tears  and  fears  are  gone — 

Sleep,  smoothing  down  the  lids  of  weary  eye& 


44 


THE  SOLDIEE'S  DEEAM. 


T.  CA:yrPBELL. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce.- -for  the  niglit-cloud  had  lower'd, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky: 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  over-power' d. 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

AVhen  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf -scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain; 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw. 
And  thrice  ere  the  morninor  I  dreamt  it  agrain, 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track: 

'Twas  autumn. — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back, 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning^  march,  when  mv  bosom  wasvounof; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft. 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn -reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine- cup.  and  fondly  I  swore. 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part; 
My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er. 

And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fullness  of  heart. 


45 


46 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


*'Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn;" 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay; — 
But  sorrow  return' d  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


THE  MOTHER'S  CHARGE. 


"Behold,!  commit  my  daughter  unto  thee  of  special  trustw* 

Precious  and  lovely,  I  yield  her  to  thee! 
Take  her,  the  gem  of  thy  dwelling  to  be! 
She  who  was  ever  my  solace  and  pride 
Glides  from  my  bosom  to  cling  to  thy  side. 

Guard  her  with  care,  which  must  never  decline; 
Make  her  thy  day-star — she  long  hath  been  mine; 
Lonely  henceforth  is  my  desolate  lot, 
What  is  the  casket  where  the  jewel  is  not  ? 

Take  her  and  pray  that  thine  arm  may  be  strong, 
Safely  to  shield  her  from  danger  and  wrong, 
Be  to  her  all  that  her  heart  hath  portrayed, 
Then  o'er  thy  path  there  will  gather  no  shade. 

Now  she  doth  love  thee  as  one  without  spot — 
Dreams  of  no  sorrow  to  darken  her  lot — 
Joyful,  yet  tearful,  I  yield  her  to  thee; 
Take  her,  the  light  of  thy  dAvelling  to  be! 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE. 

MES.         A.  KIDDER. 

There  is  many  a  rest  on  the  road  of  life, 

If  we  only  would  stop  to  take  it ; 
And  many  a  tone  from  the  better  land, 

If  the  querulous  heart  would  wake  it. 
To  the  sunny  soul  that  is  full  of  hope, 

And  Ayhose  beautiful  trust  neyer  faileth. 
The  grass  is  green,  and  the  flowers  are  bright, 

Though  the  Wintrj^  storm  prevaileth. 

Better  to  hope,  though  the  clouds  hang  low. 

And  to  keep  the  eyes  still  lifted; 
For  the  sweet  blue  sky  will  soon  peep  through, 

When  the  ominous  clouds  are  rifted. 
There  was  neyer  a  night  without  a  day, 

Nor  an  evening  without  a  morning; 
And  the  darkest  hotir.  the  proyerb  goes, 

Is  just  before  the  dawning. 

There  is  many  a  gem  in  the  path  of  life, 

"Which  we  pass  in  oui'  idle  pleastire. 
That  is  richer  far  than  the  jewelled  cro\Mi, 

Or  the  miser's  hoarded  treasure; 
It  may  be  the  loye  of  a  little  child, 

Or  a  mother's  prayer  to  heayen. 
Or  onh'  a  beo^o^ar's  fateful  thanks 

For  a  cup  of  water  giyen. 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Better  to  weave  in  the  web  of  life 

A  bright  and  golden  filling, 
And  to  do  God's  will  with  a  ready  heart, 

And  hands  that  are  swift  and  willing, 
Than  to  snap  the  delicate  silver  threads 

Of  our  curious  lives  asunder, 
And  then  blame  heaven  for  the  tangled  ends, 

And  sit  to  grieve  and  wonder. 


COMFOET. 


If  there  should  come  a  time  as  well  there  may, 

When  sudden  tribulation  smites  thine  heart, 
And  thou  dost  come  to  me  for  help,  and  stay, 

And  comfort — how  shall  I  perform  my  part  ? 
How  shall  I  make  my  heart  a  resting-place, 

A  shelter  safe  for  thee  when  terrors  smite  ? 
How  shall  I  bring  the  sunshine  to  thy  face, 

And  dry  thy  tears  in  bitter  woes'  desjoite  ? 
How  shall  I  win  strength  to  keep  my  voice, 

Steady  and  firm,  although  I  hear  thy  sobs  ? 
How  shall  I  bid  thy  fainting  soul  rejoice. 

Nor  mar  the  counsel  of  mine  own  heart-throbs  ? 
Love,  my  love,  teaches  me  a  certain  way, 
So,  if  the  dark  hour  comes,  I  am  thy  stay. 

I  must  live  higher,  nearest  the  reach 

Of  ana-els  in  their  blessed  truthfulness, 
Learn  their  usefulness,  ere  I  can  teach 

Content  to  thee  whom  I  would  greatly  bless. 
Ah,  me !  what  w^oe  were  mine  if  thou  should' st  come, 

Troubled,  but  trusting  unto  me  for  aid, 
And  I  should  meet  thee,  powerless  and  dumb, 

AVilling  to  help  thee,  but  confused,  afraid  ? 
It  shall  not  happen  thus,  for  I  will  rise, 

God  helping  me,  to  higher  lite,  and  gain 


49 


4. 


GEMS  OF  POETRY 


Courage  and  strength  to  thee  counsel  wise. 
And  deeper  love  to  bless  thee  in  thy  pain. 

Fear  not,  dear  love,  thy  trial  hour  shall  be 
The  dearest  bond  between  my  heart  and  thee. 


LITTLE  BROAA'X  HAXDS. 


1I.\EY  H.  KEOrT. 

[The  following  poem,  written  by  Maey  H.  Kegut,  of  Crawfords- 
ville,  Ind.,  ten  years  ago,  when  its  author  was  in  her  thirteenth 
year,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  expressive  ever  penned  in 
the  English  language,  and  should  find  a  place  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  America  wherever  the  dignity  of  labor  is 
recognized:] 

They  drive  home  the  cows  fi'om  the  pasture. 

Ep  through  the  long,  shady  lane. 
Where  the  cpiail  whistles  loud  in  the  wheat  Held, 

That  is  yellow"  with  ripening  grain. 
Thev  find,  in  the  thick  wavino;  o-rasses. 

"NMiere  the  scarlet-lipped  strawberry  grows^ 
They  gather  the  earliest  snowdrops. 

And  the  lii'st  crimson  bnds  of  the  rose. 

They  toss  the  hay  in  the  meadow. 

They  gather  the  elder  bloom  white. 
They  fizid  where  the  diislr\'  grapes  pm-ple 

In  the  soft  tinted  October  light. 
They  know  where  the  apples  hang  ripest, 

And  are  sweeter  than  Italy's  wines; 
They  know  where  the  fruit  hangs  the  thickest, 

On  the  long,  thorny  blackbeny  vines. 

They  gather  the  delicate  seaweeds, 

51 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  build  tiny  castles  of  sand: 
They  pick  up  the  beautiful  sea  shells- 
Fairy  barks  that  have  di'ifted  to  land. 
They  wave  from  the  tall,  rocking  tree  tops, 

Where  the  Oriole's  hammock  nest  swings, 
And  at  night  time  are  folded  in  slumber 
By  a  song  that  a  fond  mother  sings. 

Those  who  toil  bravely  are  strongest; 

The  humble  and  poor  become  great: 
And  from  those  brown- handed  children 

Shall  grow  mighty  rulers  of  state. 
The  pen  of  the  author  and  statesman, 

The  noble  and  wise  of  the  land. 
The  sword  and  chisel  and  palette 

Shall  be  held  in  the  little  brown  hand. 


0 


o  children  ruE  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share 


ELEGY  WEITTEX  IN  A  COUXTKY  CHUECHYAED. 


THOMAS  GRAY. 

HE  curfew  tolls  tlie  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lo^ying  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the 
sight, 

And  all  the  aii*  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  di'oning  flight, 
And  di'owsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 

Save  that,  from  yonder  i\y-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  .secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those   rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's 
shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering 
heap. 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 


55 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed^ 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  i-eturn. 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  I 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour : 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud!  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 
vault. 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 


ELZG-Y  VTEITTEX         A   COUyTEY  CHTECHYAP.D. 


57 


Perhaps  in  tliis  neglected  spot  is  laid 

vSome  heart  once  j^regnant  with  celestial  hr'e: 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empn-e  might  have  sway"d. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  livrng  Ivi-e. 

But  Eoiowledge  to  theu^  eves  her  ample  page. 

Eich  with  the  spoils  of  Time,  did  ne"er  nrn'oll; 
Chill  Penury  repress" d  their  noble  rage. 

And  fi'oze  the  genial  cuiTent  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  piu'est  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
Amd  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desen  au'. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  t^Tant  of  his  helds  withstood. 

Some  mute  inglorious  ]\Iilton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  bloocL 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command. 

The  thi^eats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  gi'owing  virtues,  but  thek  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  thi'ough  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  Mercy  on  mankind: 

The  stiiigghng  pangs  of  conscious  Truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  Shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
AVith  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn' d  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequester' d  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones,  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With    uncouth   rhymes    and   shapeless  sculpture 
deck'd, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by   the  unletter'd 
Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply, 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonor'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  lead. 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say. 

Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 


ELEGY   WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.  59 

"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  weathes  its  old  fantastic  root  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove; 

Now  drooping,  woeful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross' d  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  accustom' d  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 

Another  came,  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he: 

The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 
Slow  through  the  churchway-path  we  saw  him 
borne. 

Approach,  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn:" 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rest^s  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown: 

Fair  Science  frown' d  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere,- 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send; 

He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had — a  tear; 

He  gain'd  from  Heaven — 'twas  all  he  wish'd — a 
friend. 

No  fui'ther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 


GEMS   OF  POETRY. 


(There  they  alike  in  trembhng  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


SOMETBIE. 


ilKS.  MAY  RILEY  SMITH. 

Sometime,  when  all  life's  lessons  have  been  learned. 

And  sun  and  stars  forevermore  have  set. 
The  things  which  our  weak  judgment  here  had  spiu^ij 

The  things  o'er  which  Ave  grieved  A^-ith  lashes  wei, 
Will  flash  before  ns  out  of  life's  dark  night. 

As  stars  shine  most  in  deeper  tints  of  bine : 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans  were  right. 

And  how  Avhat  seemed  reproof  was  love  most  true 

And  we  shall  see  how,  AA'hile  Ave  fi'OAvn  and  sigh. 

God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you  and  me; 
HoAv.  when  we  called,  he  heeded  not  oui'  ciy, 

Because  his  AAisdom  to  the  end  could  see. 
And  even  as  prudent  parents  disallow 

Too  much  of  sAveet  to  craving  babyhood, 
So  God.  perhaps,  is  keeping  fi'om  us  now 

Life's  sAA'eetest  things,  because  it  seemeth  good. 

And  if .  sometimes,  commingled  Avith  life's  wine, 
AVe  find  the  wormwood  and  rebel  and  shi'ink, 

Be  sui'e  a  Aviser  hand  than  yoiii's  or  mine 
Pours  out  this  portion  for  oui'  lips  to  diink. 

And  if  some  fi'iend  AA'e  love  is  lying  Ioav. 
Where  human  kisses  cannot  reach  his  face, 


Gl 


GEMS  OF  POETRY 


Oh,  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so. 

But  wear  your  sorrow  with  obedient  grace. 

And  you  shall  shortly  know  that  lengthened  breath 

Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends  his  friend, 
And  that,  sometimes,  the  sable  pall  of  death 

Conceals  the  fairest  boon  his  love  can  send. 
If  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of  life, 

And  stand  within  and  all  God's  working  see, 
We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and  strife, 

And  for  each  mystery  could  find  a  key ! 

But  not  to-day.    Then  be  content,  poor  heart! 

God's  plans,  like  lilies,  pure  and  white,  unfold; 
We  must  not  tear  the  close-shut  leaves  apart, 

Time  will  reveal  the  calyxes  of  gold. 
And  if,  through  patient  toil,  we  reach  the  land 

Where  tired  feet,  with  sandals  loose,  may  rest, 
When  we  shall  clearly  know  and  understand — 

I  think  that  we  will  say,  "  God  knew  the  best!" 


REST. 


[The  following  lines  were  found  under  the  pillow  of  a  soldier 
lying  dead  in  a  hospital  near  Port  Royal,  South  Carolina.  We 
have  never,  we  believe,  seen  verses  more  true  and  touching. 
They  are  a  new  and  perfect  expression  of  world-wide  feeling:] 

I  lay  me  do^^  to  sleep,  with  little  thought  of  care, 
"Whether  vraking  find  me  here,  or  there. 

A  bowing,  burdened  head,  that  only  asks  to  rest, 
Unquestioning,  upon  a  loving  breast. 

My  o-ood  ri2:ht  hand  f oro^ets  its  cunnino-  now 
To  march  the  weary  march  I  know  not  how. 

I  am  not  eager,  bold,  nor  strong — all  that  is  past. 
Tm  readvnow  to  die,  at  last,  at  last. 

My  half  day's  work  is  done,  and  this  is  all  my  part: 
I  give  a  patient  God  my  patient  heart, 

And  grasp  his  banner  still,  though  all  its  blue  be  dim; 
These  strijDes.  no  less  than  stars,  lead  after  Him. 


63 


»    THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENCE. 


FATHER  RYAN. 


WALK  down  the  Valley  of  Silence 
Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley  alone; 

And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 
Around  me — save  God's  and  my  own. 

And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown. 


Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  voices, 

Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win; 
Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  noises, 

That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 
Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  places, 

Where  I  met  but  the  human  and  sin. 


And  still  I  pined  for  the  perfect, 

And  still  found  the  false  with  the  true, 

I  sought  mid  the  human  for  heaven, 
But  caught  a  m^ere  glimpse  of  the  blue: 

I  wept  as  the  clouds  of  the  world  veiled 
Even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 

I  toiled  on  heart-tired  of  the  human, 
I  moaned  mid  the  mazes  of  men, 


64 


THE   VALLEY  OF  SILENCE. 

Till  I  knelt,  long  ago,  at  an  Altar. 

And  heard  a  Voice  call  me ;  since  then 
I  walk  down  the  Yalley  of  Silence, 

That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

Do  you  ask  what  I  f onnd  in  the  Yalley  ? 

'Tis  my  trysting  place  with  the  Divine, 
men  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy. 

And  about  me  the  Yoice  said,  '"Be  Mine," 
There  arose  fi*om  the  depths  of  my  spirit, 

An  echo,  '"My  heart  shall  be  Thine."' 

Do  you  ask  how  I  live  in  the  Yalley  ? 

I  weep, and  I  di'eam,  and  I  pray: 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dew  drops, 

That  fall  on  the  roses  of  May : 
And  my  prayer  like  a  perfume  fi'om  censer 

Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Yalley  of  Silence, 
I  di'eam  all  the  sono-s  that  I  sino^; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  valley, 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing. 

That  to  men,  like  the  doves  of  ^he  deluge, 
The  messao'e  of  Peace  thev  mav  brino^. 

But  far  out  on  the  deep  there  are  billows, 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach ; 

And  I  have  heard  songs  in  the  Silence, 
That  never  shall  float  into  sj^eech; 

And  I  have  had  di-eams  in  the  Yalley, 
Too  lofty  for  lano^uao^e  to  reach. 

.^d  I  have  seen  foiins  in  the  Yalley, 

Ah,  me!  how  my  spirit  was  stirred; 
And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces, 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard 
They  pass  through  the  Valley  like  virgins, 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word. 

T)o  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley, 
Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  care  ? 

It  lieth  afar  between  Mountains, 
And  God  and  His  angels  are  there; 

And  one  is  the  dark  Mount  of  Sorrow, 
The  other  the  bright  Mount  of  Prayer. 


Some  time,"  we  say,  and  turn  our  eyes 

Toward  the  far  hills  of  Paradise, 

Some  day,  some  time,  a  sweet  new  rest 

Shall  blossom,  flower-like  in  each  breast. 

Some  time,  some  day  our  eyes  shall  see 

The  faces  kept  in  memory; 

Some  day  their  hands  shall  clasp  our  hands, 

Just  over  in  the  morning  lands. 

Some  day  our  ears  shall  hear  the  song 

Of  triumph  over  sin  and  wrong. 

Some  time,  some  time,  but  ah!  not  yet! 

Still  we  will  wait  and  not  forget, 

That  "  some  time  all  these  things  shall  be. 

And  rest  be  given  to  you  and  me." 

So  let  us  wait,  though  years  move  slow, 

That  glad  "  some  time"  will  come,  we  know. 


BEYOND. 


HENRY  BURTON. 


Never  a  word  is  said 

But  it  trembles  in  the  air, 

And  the  truant  voice  is  sped, 

To  vibrate  everywhere; 

And  perhaps  far  off  in  eternal  years 

The  echo  may  ring  upon  our  ears. 

Never  are  kind  acts  done 
To  wipe  the  weeping  eyes, 
But  like  the  flashes  of  the  sun, 
They  signal  to  the  skies ; 
And  up  above  the  angels  read 
How  we  have  helped  the  sorer  need. 

Never  a  day  is  given. 

But  it  tones  the  after  years, 

And  it  carries  up  to  heaven 

Its  sunshine  or  its  tears; 

While  the  to-morrows  stand  and  wait, 

The  silent  mutes  by  the  outer  gate. 

There  is  no  end  to  the  sky. 

And  the  stars  are  everywhere. 

And  time  is  eternity. 

And  the  here  is  over  there; 

For  the  common  deeds  of  the  common 

Are  ringing  bells  in  the  far-away. 

67 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  CITY. 


J.    W.  RILEY. 


HE  Beautiful  City  !  Forever 
1^      Its  rapturous  praises  resound, 


And  we  fain  would  behold  it — but  never 

A  glimpse  of  its  glory  is  found. 
We  slacken  our  lips  at  the  tender 


White  breasts  of  our  mothers  to  hear 
Of  its  marvelous  beauty  and  splendor  ; — 
We  see — but  the  gleam  of  a  tear  ! 

Yet  never  the  story  may  tire  us — 

First  graven  in  symbols  of  stone — 
Rewritten  on  scrolls  of  papyrus, 

And  parchment,  and  scattered  and  blown 
By  the  winds  of  the  tongues  of  all  nations, 

Like  a  litter  of  leaves  wildly  whirled 
Down  the  rack  of  a  hundred  translations, 

From  the  earliest  lisp  of  the  world 

We  compass  the  earth  and  the  ocean 

From  the  Orient's  uttermost  light. 
To  where  the  last  ripple  in  motion 

Lips  hem  of  the  skirt  of  the  night, — 
But  The  Beautiful  City  evades  us — 

No  spire  of  it  glints  in  the  sun — 
No  glad-bannered  battlement  shades  us 

When  all  our  long  journey  is  done. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  CITY. 


Where  lies  it  ?  We  question  arid  listen  ; 

We  lean  from  the  mountain,  or  mast, 
And  see  but  dull  earth,  or  the  glisten 

Of  seas  inconceivably  vast  : 
The  dust  of  the  one  bliu's  our  vision— 

The  glare  of  the  other  our  brain, 
Nor  city  nor  island  elysian 

In  all  of  the  land  or  the  main  ! 

We  kneel  in  dim  fanes  where  the  thunders 

Of  organs  tumultuous  roll, 
And  the  longing  heart  listens  and  wonders, 

And  the  eyes  look  aloft  fi'om  the  soul, 
But  the  chanson  grows  fainter  and  fainter, 

Swoons  wholly  away  and  is  dead  ; 
And  our  eyes  only  reach  where  the  painter 

Has  dabbled  a  saint  overhead. 

The  Beautiful  City  !    O  mortal , 

Fare  hopefully  on  in  thy  quest. 
Pass  down  through  the  green  grassy  portal 

That  leads  to  the  valley  of  rest, 
There  fii'st  passed  the  One  who,  in  pity 

Of  all  thy  great  yearning,  awaits 
'To  point  out  the  Beautiful  City, 

And  loosen  the  trump  at  the  gates 


EXAMPLE. 


J.  KEBLE. 


We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  hand, 

And  dream  we  ne'er  shall  see  them  more 
But  for  a  thousand  years 
Their  fruit  appears, 
In  weeds  that  mar  the  land 
Or  healthful  store. 

In  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say, 
Into  still  air  they  seem  to  fleet; 
"We  count  them  ever  past; 
But  they  shall  last — 
In  the  dread  judgment  they 
And  we  shall  meet. 

I  charge  thee  by  the  years  gone  by,. 
For  the  love  of  brethren  dear, 
Keep,  then,  the  one  true  way 
In  work  and  play, 
Lest  in  the  world  their  cry 
Of  woe  thou  hear. 


"  No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever.'* 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 


F.  M.  FINCH. 

Y  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave  grass  quiver 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead ; — 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  day  ;- 
Under  the  one, the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle -blood  gory. 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet ; — 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  day; — 
Under  the  laurel, the  Blue; 
Under  the  willow, the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  soiTowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go. 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  fi'iend  and  the  foe ; — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  Judgment  day; — 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  lilies,the  Gray 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch, impartially  tender. 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all; — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 
Waiting  the  Judgment  day, — • 
'Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
^         Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Grayc 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth. 

On  forest  and  field  of  grain. 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain; — 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  day; — 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue,- 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

■31. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading. 
No  braver  battle  was  won; — 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  Judgment  day; — 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  garlands, the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever. 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead  I 


THE   BLUE   AND   THE   GRAY.  OUR  OWN. 


Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  Judgment  day  ;■ 

Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue; 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


OUR  OW. 


MRS.  M.  E.  SANGSTEE. 


If  I  had  known  in  the  morning, 
How  wearily  all  the  day 

The  words  unkind  would  trouble  my  mind, 
I  said  when  you  went  away, 
I  had  been  more  careful,  darling, 

Nor  given  you  needless  pain: 
But  we  vex  our  own  with  look  and  tone 

We  might  never  take  back  again. 

For  though  in  the  quiet  evening 
You  may  give  me  the  kiss  of  peace, 

Yet  it  might  be  that  never  for  me 
The  pain  of  the  heart  should  cease. 
How  many  go  forth  in  the  morning 

That  never  come  home  at  night, 
And  hearts  have  broken  for  harsh  words  spoke 

That  soiTow  can  ne'er  set  right. 

We  have  careful  thouo^hts  for  the  stranofer, 
And  for  the  sometime  guest, 

But  oft  for  our  o^vn  the  bitter  tone, 
Though  we  love  our  own  the  best. 
Ah!  lips  with  the  curve  impatient, 

Ah!  brow  with  a  look  of  scorn, 
'Twere  a  cruel  fate,  were  the  night  too  late, 

To  undo  the  work  of  morn. 


THE  CUP  BEARER. 


EMILIE  CLARE. 

In  olden  time  there  lived  a  king 

For  wit  and  wisdom  much  renowned — 

In  feasting  and  in  reveling 

He  far  surpassed  all  kings  around. 

Now  it  so  happened,  on  a  time 

When  the  great  lords  of  earth  had  met, 
To  feast  o'er  meats,  and  fume  o'er  wine, 

It  needed  still  one  person  yet, — 

One  all  important  personage. 

To  bear  the  cup  with  lordly  grace; 

When  lo,  a  youth  of  tender  age 

Said  modestly,  "I'll  take  his  place." 

Well  pleased,  the  king  smiles  a  consent, 
The  youth  the  cup  and  napkin  bore, 

And  gracefully  his  footsteps  bent 
To  those  who  knightly  honors  wore. 

"Well  done,"  was  passed  from  lip  to  lip! 

"My  son,"  his  father  said,  "this  thing 
Was  nobly  done,  yet  you  to  sip 

Forgot,  before  you  gave  your  king." 


THE   CUP  BEAEEK. 


"Xav,  I  forgot  no  custom  old, 
But  coiled  within  the  cup,  I  saw 

A  poisonous  serpent,  fold  on  fold, 

And  that  was  why  I  shunned  the  law." 

"A  serpent,  child!  and  poisonous? — why! — 
How  can  you  speak  so  strange  and  wild?" 

"  I  saw  the  poisonous  serpent  nigh, 
And  shunned  it,"  said  the  timid  child. 

"  Aye!  shunned  it,  for  I  saw  the  power 
On  those  who  drank  but  yesterday, 

In  less  by  far,  than  one  short  hour 
Their  wit  and  wisdom  fled  away. 

"  Some  tried  to  dance,  and  some  to  sing, 
And  some  to  walk  as  vainly  tried, 

"WTiile  you,  forgetful  you  were  king. 
Mounted  a  broom-stick  for  a  ride." 


"I'D  MOUEN  THE  HOPES." 


TOM  MOORE. 


rd  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me, 

If  thy  smiles  had  left  me  too; 
I'd  weep  when  friends  deceive  me, 

Hadst  thou  been  like  them  untrue. 
But  while  I've  thee  before  me, 

With  heart  so  warm,  and  eyes  so  bright, 
No  clouds  can  linger  o'er  me. 

That  smile  turns  them  all  to  light. 

'Tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me, 

While  fate  leaves  thy  love  to  me; 
'Tis  not  in  joy  to  charm  me, 

Unless  joy  be  shar'd  with  thee. 
One  minute's  dream  about  thee 

Were  worth  a  long  and  endless  year 
Of  waking  bliss  without  thee. 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear! 

And,  though  the  hope  be  gone,  love. 
That  long  sparkled  o'er  our  way. 

Oh!  we  shall  journey  on,  love. 
More  safely,  without  its  ray; 

78 


•i'd  mourn  the  hopes." 


79 


Far  better  light  shall  win  me, 
Along  the  path  I've  yet  to  roam; 

The  mind,  that  bni'ns  within  me, 
And  pure  smiles  from  thee  at  home. 

Thus,  when  the  lamp  that  lighted 

The  travelery  at  fii'st  goes  out 
He  feels  awhile  benighted 

And  looks  round  in  fear  and  doubt. 
But  soon,  the  prospect  clearing, 

By  cloudless  star-light  on  he  treads, 
And  thinks  no  lamp  so  cheering 

As  that  light  which  heaven  sheds! 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  BELL. 


W.   H.  SPAEKS. 


[The  following  note  accompanied  the  copy  of  the  poem  found 
among  Colonel  Spark's  papers,  says  the  Atlanta  Constitution: 
"After  an  absence  of  thirty  years,  I  visited  my  native  village, 
Eatonton,  Putnam  county,  Ga.,  and  sojourned  for  a  week  in  the 
hospitable  home  of  my  boyhood  s  friend,  Edmund  Reid.  On 
Sabbath  morning,  whilst  alone  in  my  bed-room,  the  old  church 
bell  commenced  to  ring.  My  heart  was  touched,  and  tears  flooded 
my  eyes.  The  tones  were  familiar  as  though  I  had  heard  them 
every  Sunday  during  all  that  lapse  of  intervening  time.  With  my 
pencil  I  wrote  these  lines  in  a  small  memorandum  book  which  I 
carried  in  my  pocket : '  ] 

Ring  on,  ring  on,  sweet  Sabbath  bell; 

Thy  mellow  tones  I  love  to  hear, 
I  was  a  boy,  when  first  they  fell 

In  melody  upon  mine  ear; 
In  those  dear  days,  long  past  and  gone, 

When  sporting  here  in  boyish  glee, 
The  magic  of  thy  Sabbath  tone 

Awoke  emotions  deep  in  me. 

Long  years  have  gone  and  I  have  strayed 

Out  o'er  the  world,  far,  far  away. 
But  thy  dear  tones  have  round  me  played 

On  every  lovely  Sabbath  day. 

80 


THE   OLD   CHtT.CH  BELL. 


81 


"When  strolling  o'er  the  miglity  plains,. 

Spread  widely  in  the  noipeopled  West. 
Each  Sabbath  morn  I've  neard  thy  sti^ains 

Tolling  the  welcome  day  of  rest. 

Upon  the  rocky  mountain  crest. 

"Where  Christian  feet  have  never  trod, 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  West 

I've  thought  of  thee  and  worshiped  God; 
Eing  on.  sweet  belli  I've  come  again 

To  hear  thy  cherished  call  to  prayer. 
There's  less  of  pleasm^e.  now.  than  pain 

In  those  dear  tones  which  till  my  ear. 

Eino-  on.  rino-  on.  dear  bell,  rino;  on  I 

Once  "more  I've  come  with  whitened  head 
To  hear  thee  toll.    The  sounds  are  gone! 

And  e'er  this  Sabbath  day  has  sped. 
I  shall  be  gone,  and  may  no  more 

Give  ear  to  thee,  sweet  Sabbath  bell! 
Dear  chiux-h  and  bell,  so  loved  of  yore. 

And  childhood's  happy  home,  farewell  I 

—Eafonton,  G-a.,  May  18,  1856. 


SAD. 


A  SHORT  TALE  IN    SHORT  WORDS. 


W.  S.  F. 


ID  you  hear  that  sound  of  woe, 

Ring  out  on  the  still  night  air  ? 
Did  you  see  the  mad  fiend's  blow 

Fall  on  her  who  knelt  in  prayer  ? 
Did  you  hear  the  last  sad  moan, 

As  that  fair  one's  soul  was  freed. 
And  list  in  vain  to  hear  a  groan 

Or  sigh  from  him  who  did  the  deed  ? 

Ah,  see  that  smile  of  ioy  and  rest, 

Now  as  she  draws  her  last  short  breath, 
That  to  her  still  white  face  is  prest. 

E'en  while  she  tastes  the  cup  of  death. 
I  would  not  have  you  hear  the  curse 

That  from  this  base  man's  lips  there  fell, 
Nor  go  to  see  the  poor  lone  hearse 

And  grave  of  her  with  whom  all's  well — 


But  turn  now  to  a  scene  more  fair. 
And  see  those  two  so  blithe  and  gay; 

82 


SAn. 


He  twines  a  rose  •wi^eath  in  her  lian\ 
She  smiles  on  him  thi'ongh  all  the  day. 

He  plights  his  love,  wealth,  di^eams  of  bhss. 
And  she  pure  love,  fair  hand,  leal  heart, 

Theu'  vows  are  sealed  -^-ith  faith's  sweet  kiss, 
A  hic^h  trnst  wi'oiiofht  bv  no  rnde  art. 

They  wed;  and  as  the  years  sped  on. 

A  dark  cloud  came  and  o'er  them  hung; 
Theii'  vows  were  hid.  their  love  was  gone. 

And  in  mute  woe  joy's  knell  was  rung. 
The  Fiend  of  Drink — the  curse  and  foe 

Of  man  thi-ou^h  all  the  flio-hts  of  time — 
Stole  in  and  laid  the  strong  youth  low; 

He  drank,  and  this  was  all  his  crime. 

The  deeds  of  wrong  which  he  has  done. 

All  came  fi'om  this  his  first  gi'eat  sin, 
And  all  his  once  grand  traits  had  won 

Was  lost  in  dark  wild  strife  and  din ; 
Eum  is  the  cause  of  all  the  shame 

That  holds  him  now  with  bands  of  steel, 
And  when  the  stern  Seer  laid  a  claim 

Oh  what  sharp  pain  his  wife  did  feel  I 

But  she  is  fi-eed  fi'om  all  her  woes 

AMiile  he  must  still  go  down  and  down 
Through  all  the  shades  of  crime's  keen  thi'oes 

He  sought  a  ban  and  she  a  crov»-n. 
The  years  to  come  will  tell  the  tale — 

Frail  words  cannot  speak  all  the  truth, 
"VMien  Death  shall  come  on  steed  so  pale, 

To  take  with  him  this  sin- wild  youth- 


GEMS  OF  POETEY. 


My  brave  young  boys  take  heed  I  pray, 

And  walk  not  in  this  black  crime's  path, 
Walk  on  that  high  and  grand  straight  way, 

Which  shuns  the  place  of  fire  and  wraths 
Ye  bright  hopes  of  the  yet  to  come, 

With  truth  now  let  your  feet  be  shod, 
Strive  for  that  blest  and  dear  good  home,, 

In  the  gratid  realms  of  our  God. 


DEIFTINa. 


CALISTA  L.  GEAXT. 


I  stand  by  the  riter,  so  peacefully  shining, 

Beyond  is  the  city  I'm  yearning  to  see; 

I  wait  for  the  summons  that's  coming  to  me! 
Hold  me  closer,  my  darling,  and  feel  no  repining, 
We  know  that  the  pm^e  loye  our  hearts  now  entwining. 

Reaching  oyer  the  riyer,  immortal  will  be! 

Thou  fair,  golden  city,  soon,  soon,  I  shall  find  me 
Thy  clear  jasper  walls  and  thy  pearl  gates  within, 
Where  neyer  can  enter  earth's  bondage  and  sin! 
All  the  world's  care  and  pain  I  shall  leaye  far  behind  me, 
No  more  can  my  prison  chains  trammel  and  bind  me. 
My  crown  of  rejoicing  at  last  I  shall  win. 

For  I'm  dying,  you  say,  though  it  seems  more  like  dreaming, 

So  slow^ly  the  life-tide  is  ebbing  away, — 

So  slowly  is  fadino;  life's  linoferino^  ray! 
So  long  all  of  earth  hath  been  idle  seeming, 
So  long,  oh,  so  long,  haye  I  watched  for  the  gleaming 

Of  the  pure  gates  that  open  to  Heayen's  perfect  day. 

Through  the  yine-curtained  window  the  sunlight  is  sifting, 

85 


S6 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


On  the  snow  of  the  mountains  the  purple  mist  lies; 

But  they  fade  from  my  view,  as  the  death -shadows  rise^ 
And  out  from  the  earth- life  my  lone  bark  is  drifting, 
Through  the  mist  and  the  shadow,  but  angels  are  liftings 

With  invisible  fingers,  the  gates  of  the  skies  ! 


A  FAREWELL 


Farewell !  since  never  more  for  thee 
The  sun  comes  up  our  eastern  skies, 

Less  bright  henceforth  shall  sunshine  be 
To  some  fond  hearts  and  saddened  eyes. 

There  are  who  for  thy  last,  long  sleep 
Shall  sleep  as  sweetly  nevermore, 

Shall  weep  because  thou  canst  not  weep, 
And  grieve  that  all  thy  griefs  are  o'er. 

Sad  thrift  of  lOve!  the  loving  breast 
On  which  the  aching  head  was  thrown, 

Gave  up  the  weary  head  to  rest. 
But  kept  the  aching  for  its  own. 


FAITH. 

FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE. 


Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived, 
And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving, 
Than  doubt  one  heart  that  if  beheved 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

0,  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth; 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 


BED. 


Our  sweetest  and  most  bitter  hours  are  thine; 

Thou  by  the  weary  frame  art  fondly  pressed, 
Which,  grateful,  blesses  its  most  welcome  shrine, 

While  curses  thee,  pale  sickness'  sad  unrest. 
'Tis  here  the  blushing  bride  receives  her  lord; 

'Tis  here  the  mother  first  beholds  her  child; 
'Tis  here  death  snaps  affection's  fondest  cord, 

And  changes  sunny  bliss  to  anguish  wild; 
'Tis  here  the  good  man,  pondering  on  his  fate, 

Beholds  that  bed  which  this  doth  typefy, 
Made  by  the  sexton,  his  frail  form's  estate, 

Where,  in  long  slumber,  it  shall  dreamless  lie; 
And  he  exults,  feeling  in  that  dark  sod 
His  robe  alone  will  lie — the  rest  with  God! 


GILLYFLOAYEES. 


LD-FASmOXED.  yes.  I  know  they 
Long  exiled  from  the  gay  parterre, 
And  banished  from  the  bowers: 
-Bnt  not  the  fairest  foreign  bloom 
Can  match  in  beanty  or  perfume 
Those  bonnv  English  flowers. 


Their  velvet  j^etals,  fold  on  fold. 
In  every  shade  of  flaming  gold, 
And  richest,  deepest  brown. 
Lie  close  with  little  leaves  betAveen, 
Of  slender  shape  and  tender  green, 
And  sofr  as  softest  down. 

On  Sabbath  mornino-s  lono-  ao-o. 
"XMien  melody  began  to  flow 

From  out  the  belfry  tower. 
I  used  to  breali  fr^om  childish  talk. 
To  phick  beside  the  garden  walk 

My  mother's  Sunday  flower. 

In  spring  she  loved  the  snow- drop  wJiite, 
In  summer  time  carnations  bright. 

Or  roses  newly  blown: 
But  this  the  bower  she  cherished  mostj 
And  from  the  goodly  garden  host 


90 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


She  chose  it  for  her  own.  ^ 

Ah,  mother  dear!  the  brown  flowers  wave 
In  sunshine  o'er  thy  quiet  grave, 

This  morning  far  away; 
And  I  sit  lonely  here  the  while, 
Scarce  knowing  if  to  sigh  or  smile 

Upon  their  sister  spray. 

I  well  could  sigh,  for  grief  is  strong, 
I  well  could  smile,  for  love  lives  long, 

And  conquers  even  death; 
But  if  I  smile,  or  if  I  sigh, 
God  knoweth  well  the  reason  why, 

And  gives  me  broader  faith. 

Firm  faith  to  feel  all  good  is  meant. 
Sure  hope  to  fill  with  deep  content 

My  most  despairing  hours ; 
And  oftentimes  he  deigns  to  shed. 
Sweet  sunshine  o'er  the  path  I  tread. 

As  on  to-day,  these  flowers. 

And  chose  he  not  a  bearer  meet, 

To  bring  for  me  those  blossoms  sweet, 

A  loving  little  child? 
And  child  and  bonny  blossoms  come. 
Like  messages  of  love  and  home, 

O'er  waters  waste  and  wild. 

— All  the  Year  Bound. 


THE  BEOOK. 


A.  TEXXYSOX. 

"O  babbling  brook,"  says  Edmund  in  his  rhyme, 

"  Whence  come  you?"  and  the  brook,  why  not  ?  replies. 

COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a  yalley. 

By  thii'ty  hills  I  hun-y  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundi'ed  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  fann  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  riyer, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  f oreyer. 

I  chatter  oyer  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

93 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


With  many  a  3urve  my  banks  I  fret, 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow- weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 


THE   BROOK.     -  9^ 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses: 
I  linger  bv  my  shingly  barsj 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 


THEEE  CHAEACTERISTIC  EPITAPHS. 

[A  Friend  who  read  the  epitaph  prepared  for  his  own  tomb  by 
the  late  Professor  Clifford,  was  prompted  to  compose  two  others, 
which,  with  that  of  the  Professor,  is  given  below.] 

ATHEIST. 

I  was  not,  and  I  was  conceived; 
I  lived,  and  did  a  little  work; 
I  am  not.  and  I  grieve  not. 

PANTHEIST. 

A  drop  of  spray  cast  fi^om  the  Infinite, 
I  hung  an  instant  there,  and  thi'ew  my  ray 
To  make  the  rainbow.     A  microcosm  I, 
Reflecting  all.    Then  back  I  fell  again: 
And  though  I  perished  not.  I  was  no  more. 


CHEISTIAX. 

God  willed:  I  was.  "What  He  had  planned  I  wrought, 
That  done,  He  called,  and  now  I  dwell  with  him. 


MY  BEIDE  THAT  IS  TO  BE. 


J.  W.  RILEY. 


SOUL  of  mine,  look  out  and  see 
My  bride,  my  bride  that  is  to  be! 
Reach  out  with  mad,  impatient  hands 
And  draw  aside  futurity 
§r  As  one  might  draw  a  veil  aside, 
I     And  so  unveil  her  where  she  stands 
^    Madonna-like  and  glorified — 
The  Queen  of  undiscovered  lands 
Of  love,  to  where  she  beckons  me — 
My  bride,  my  bride  that  is  to  be. 

The  shadow  of  a  willow  tree 

That  wavers  on  a  garden  wall 

In  summer  time  may  never  fall 

In  attitude  as  gracefully 

As  my  fair  bride  that  is  to  be; 

Nor  ever  Autumn's  leaves  of  brown 

As  lightly  flutter  to  the  lawn 

As  fall  her  fairy  feet  upon 

The  path  of  love  she  loiters  down. 

O'er  drops  of  dew  she  walks,  and  yet 

Not  one  may  stain  her  sandal  wet; 


MY  BRIDE   THAT  IS  TO  BE. 


97 


And  she  might  dance  upon  the  way, 
Nor  crush  a  single  di'op  to  spray, 
So  airy-Hke  she  seems  to  me — 
My  bride,  my  bride  that  is  to  be. 

I  know  not  if  her  eyes  are  light 
As  summer  skies,  or  dark  as  night — 
I  only  know  that  they  are  dim 
With  mystery.    In  vain  I  peer 
To  make  their  hidden  meaning  clear, 
"While  o'er  their  surface,  like  a  tear 
That  ripples  to  the  silken  brim, 
A  look  of  longing  seems  to  swim, 
All  warm  and  weary -like  to  me; 
And  then,  as  suddenly,  my  sight 
Is  blinded  with  a  smile  so  bright. 
Through  folded  lids  I  still  may  see 
My  bride,  my  bride  that  is  to  be. 

Her  face  is  like  a  night  of  June 

Upon  whose  brow  the  crescent  moon 

Hangs  pendent  in  a  diadem 

Of  stars, with  enxj  lighting  them; 

And,  like  a  wild  cascade,  her  hair 

Floods  neck  and  shoulder,   arm  and  wi'ist, 

Till  only  through  the  gleaming  mist 

I  seem  to  see  a  siren  there, 

With  lips  of  love  and  melody. 

And  open  arms  and  heaving  breast 

Wherein  I  fling  my  soul  to  rest. 

The  while  my  heart  cries  hopelessly 

For  my  fair  bride  that  is  to  be. 

Nay,  foolish  heart  and  blinded  eyes, 
My  bride  has  need  of  no  disguise — - 


GEMS  OF  POETEY. 


But  rather  let  her  come  to  me 

In  such  a  form  as  bent  above 

My  pillow  when  in  infancy 

I  knew  not  anything  but  love. 

Ohj  let  her  come  from  out  the  lands 

OfWomanhood — not  fairy  isles — 

And  let  her  come  with  woman's  hands, 

And  woman's  eyes  of  tears  and  smiles; 

With  woman's  hopefulness  and  grace 

Of  patience  lighting  up  her  face; 

And  let  her  diadem  be  wrought 

Of  kindly  deed  and  prayerful  thought. 

That  ever  over  all  distress 

May  beam  the  light  of  cheerfulness : 

And  let  her  feet  be  brave  to  fare 

The  labyrinths  of  doubt  and  care, 

That  following,  my  own  may  find 

The  path  to  heaven  God  designed — 

Oh,  let  her  come  like  this  to  me, 

My  bride,  my  bride  that  is  to  be. 


'^TTHO  HAS  ROBBED  THE  OCEAX  CAVE 


•JOHN  SHAW. 


VTho  has  robbed  the  ocean  cave. 

To  tinge  thy  lips  with  coral  hue  ? 
VTho.  from  India's  distant  wave. 

Eor  thee  those  pearly  treasui^es  drew? 
AMio,  from  yonder  orient  sky. 
Stole  the  morning  of  thine  eye  ? 

Thousand  charms  thy  form  to  deck. 

From  sea.  and  earth,  and  air  are  torn; 
Roses  bloom  upon  thy  cheek, 

On  thy  breath  theu'  fi'agrance  borne : 
Guard  thy  bosom  from  the  day, 
Lest  thy  snows  should  melt  away. 

But  one  charm  remains  behind. 

TMiich  mute  earth  could  ne'er  impart; 
Nor  in  ocean  wilt  thou  find. 
Xor  in  the  circling  air.  a  heart: 

Fairest,  wouldst  thou  23erfect  be, 
Take,  oh  take  that  heart  from  me. 


99 


A  PORTRAIT. 


Two  eyes  I  see  whose  snnny  blue 

Rivals  the  summer  skies ; 
Two  lips  whose  ripe  and  cherry  hue 

With  bright  carnation  vies; 
Two  rippling  waves  of  gold  brown  hair, 

An  antique  comb  to  keep  them  straight; 
A  sweet  and  simple  face  most  fair — 

Pressed  on  my  heart  is  this  portrait. 


TWO  PICTUKES. 


MAEIAN  DOUGLASS. 


An  old  farm-house,  with  meadows  wide, 
And  sweet  with  clover  on  each  side; 
A  bright- eyed  boy,  who  looks  from  out 
The  door  with  woodbine  wi'eathed  about 
And  wishes  his  one  thought  all  day : 
"  O  if  I  could  but  fly  away 

From  this  dull  spot  the  world  to  see, 
How  happy,  happy,  happy, 

How  happy  I  should  b^!  " 

Amid  tne  city's  constant  din, 
A  man  who  round  the  world  has  been, 
Who,  'mid  the  tumult  and  the  throng. 
Is  thinking,  thinking  all  day  long, — 
"  O  could  I  only  tread  once  more 
The  field -path  to.  the  farm-house  door. 

The  old,  green  meadows  could  I  see, 
How  happy,  happy,  happy. 

How  happy  I  should  be!  " 

101 


EXTKACTS  FROj^I  "BURNS." 


T.    G.  HALLECK. 


He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 
A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 

A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 
Of  coward  and  of  slave, 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard!  His  words  are  driven. 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man!  A  nation  stood 
,    Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 

102 


EXTRACTS  FEO^   "BUHNS.'  — THE  XATITITT. 


Her  brave,  her  beantifiil.  her  good. 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth- conch  aroimd. 
With  the  mnte  homage  that  we  pay 

To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Thouo'h  with  the  buried  o;one. 

Sucn  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines. 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined. — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 


THE  NATIVITY. 

J.  MILTOX. 


This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  mom, 
^Tierein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 

Oui'  great  redem^^tion  fi'om  above  did  bring; 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing, 

That  he  om-  daily  forfeit  should  release, 

And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  unsufferable, 


104 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty, 
Wherewith  he  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council-table 

To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 

He  laid  aside,  and  here  with  us  to  be. 
Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 

Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 
Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant- God? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain. 
To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode, 
Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light. 

And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons  bright  ? 

See,  how  from   far,  upon  the  eastern  road, 
The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odors  sweet; 

Oh,  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet; 
Have  thou  the  honor  first  thy  Lord  to  greet. 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel-choir, 

From  out  his  secret  altar  touch' d  with  hallow' d  fire. 


A  FEEE  SHOAV 


WYOMING  KIT. 


SIT  to-iiight  as  audience  to  my  thoughts, 

AVhich  to  a  panorama  treat  my  vision 
Of  days  long  past,  some  bright,  some  bearing 
blots. 

Some  worthy  praise;  some  calling  forth  derision! 
And  as  the  ever-chanofino'  scenes      bv — 
Eliciting  applause  or  condemnation — 
I  bid  the  canvas  halt,  as  to  my  eye 

Appears  a  scene  which  once  caused  aggi^avationl 

It  shows  me  in  the  bright  sunset  of  youth. 

Just  entering^  the  dawn  of  manhood's  morninof. 
^"\lien  womankind  I  ranked  as  pearls  of  truth. 

Forever  eveiw  thouo;ht  of  falsehood  scornino;! 
One  avalanche  of  beauty  crossed  my  path. 

And  of  my  heart  susceptible  made  capture! 
Ah  I  who  can  know  the  joy  I  felt,  who  hath 

Not  likewise  had  a  tussle  with  love's  rapture  I 

I  wooed  her  as  did  woo  the  fabled  gods — 

(  At  least  as  I  then  understood  their  wooing 
From  what  I'd  o^leaned  from  books) — but  what's  the  odds? 


106 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


I  wooed  her,  that's  enough — ^and  in  my  suing 
I  promised  her — W3ll,  never  mind;  'twas  more 

Than  I  could  ever  give  from  shrunken  bounty! 
Enough  to  stock  the  very  finest  store 

In  this,  or  any  other,  high-toned  county! 

My  wages  vanished  Kke  a  summer  dream, ' 

In  little  odds  or  ends  to  suit  her  fancy; 
Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  confections,  rides,  ice-cream. 

And  price  of  opera  boxes'  occupancy ! 
My  board  bill  swelled  into  enormous  size ! 

My  washerwoman  threatened  dire  exposure ! 
And  creditors — confound  'em — swarmed  like  flies, 

And  hinted  at  a  possible  disclosure! 

And  yet,  my  darling's  smiles  at  all  times  drove 

Away  the  morbid  shade  these  scenes  threw  o'er  me 
The  very  pangs  of  sulphurdom ,  by  Jove ! 

Would  lose  their  terror  with  her  smiles  before  me. 
At  last  she  named  the  happy,  joyous  day 

When  I  should  claim  her  for  my  own,  own  treasure 
But  just  before  the  night  she  ran  away 

With  clerk  of  a  hotel,  a  gent  of  leisure! 

***        *  * 

Ten  years  have  passed.    I  saw  her  yesterday 

Beneath  a  basketful  of  dirty  linen! 
She  takes  in  washing  now!  alack-a-day! 

And  'pon  my  soul  I  couldn't  keep  from  grinnin' 
To  see  that  form  which  once  was  lithe  and  fair. 

Now  weighing  some  two  hundred  pounds,  or  over! 
And  seven  children,  all  with  oreide  hair. 

Now  greet  her  with  the  sacred  name  of  "  muvver!  " 


A  FREE   SHOW.  "TILL  DEATH  US  PART. 

Her  husband  tumbled  from  his  lofty  grade 

And  soaked  his  diamond!  "?)  for  just  a  dollar, 
With  which  he  bought  a  bootblack's  stock  in  trade 

And  went  in  partnership  with  gent  of  color ! 
His  works  now  shine — fi'om  others'  fancy  boots! 

Alas!  what  ending  to  love's  glorious  summer! 
Bright  di'eam  of  glory  plucked  out  by  the  roots ! 

Who?  me? — ah — um — well.  I'm  a  genteel  bummer. 


'•TILL  DEATH  TS  PAET." 


DEAN  STANLEY. 


"  Till  death  us  part," 

So  speaks  the  heart. 
"When  each  to  each  repeats  the  words  of  doom; 

Thro'  blessing,  and  thro*  curse, 

For  better  and  for  worse, 
We  Avill  be  one  till  the  dread  hour  shall  come. 

Life,  with  its  myriad  grasp. 

Our  yearning  souls  shall  clasp, 
By  ceaseless  love  and  still  expectant  wonder, 

In  bonds  that  shall  endure, 

Indissolubly  sure, 
Till  God  in  death  shall  part  our  paths  asunder. 


Till  Death  us  join, 
O  voice  yet  more  divine! 
That  to  the  broken  heart  breathes  hope  sublime; 


108 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Thro'  lonely  hours 
And  shattered  powers 
We  still  are  one,  despite  of  change  and  time. 

Death,  with  his  healing  hand, 

Shall  once  more  knit  the  band 
Which  needs  but  that  one  link  which  none  may  sever  j 

Till,  thro'  the  Only  Good, 

Heard,  felt  and  understood. 
Our  life  in  God  shall  make  us  one  forever. 


110 


GEMS  OF  POETRY, 


SUNSET  WITH  CLOUDS. 


HE  earth  grows  dark  about  me, 

But  heaven  shines  clear  above, 
As  daylight  slowlv  melts  away 
jj     AYith  the  crimson  light  I  love; 
'And  clouds,  like  floating  shadows 

Of  every  form  and  hue, 
Hover  around  his  dying  couch. 
And  blush  a  bright  adieu. 

Like  fiery  forms  of  angels, 

They  throng  around  the  sun — 
Courtiers  that  on  their  monarch  wait, 

Until  his  course  is  run; 
From  him  they  take  their  glory: 

His  honor  they  uphold: 
And  trail  their  flowing^  o- arments  forth, 

Of  purple,  green  and  gold. 

O  bliss  to  gaze  upon  them. 

From  this  commanding  hill, 
And  diink  the  spirit  of  the  hoiu'. 

"W^ile  all  around  is  still: 
While  distant  skies  are  opening 

And  stretching  far  away. 
A  shadowy  landscape  dipp'd  in  gold, 

A^Tiere  happier  spirits  stray. 

Ill 


112 


GEMS  OF  POETKY. 


I  feel  myself  immortal, 

As  in  your  robe  of  light 
The  glorious  hills  and  vales  of  heaven 

Are  dawning  on  the  sight; 
I  seem  to  hear  the  murmur 

Of  some  celestial  stream, 
And  catch  the  glimmer  of  its  course 

Beneath  the  sacred  beam.  * 

And  such,  methinks,  with  rapture, 

Is  my  eternal  home — 
More  lovely  than  this  passing  glimpse 

To  which  my  footsteps  roam ; 
There's  something  yet  more  glorious 

Succeeds  this  life  of  pain; 
And,  strengthened  with  a  mightier  hope, 

I  face  the  world  again. 


— Temple  Bar. 


TO  THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 


R.    H.  TVILDE. 


Wing'd  mimic  of  the  woods!  thou  motley  fool, 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe  ? 
Thine  ever  -ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe: 

Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 
Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school; 

To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe. 
Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule! 

For  such  thou  art  by  day — but  all  night  long 
Thou  pour'st  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 

As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 
Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques  complain, 

Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 
And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


8 


113 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 


p.   B.  SHELLEY. 


The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  river  with  the  ocean ; 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  forever, 

With  a  sweet  emotion ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle: — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See!  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea:~ 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 


THE  SONG  OF  LIGHTNING. 


GEO.    W.  CUTTER. 


WAY,  away,  through  the  sightless  air — 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread; 
For  I  would  not  dim  my  sandals  fair 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread; 
Ay,  rear  it  up  on  its  million  piers — 

Let  it  reach  the  world  around, 
And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hundred  years 

I'll  clear  at  a  single  bound! 


Though  I  cannot  toil  like  the  groaning  slave 

Ye  have  fetter' d  with  iron  skill, 
To  ferry  you  over  the  boundless  wave, 

Or  grind  in  the  noisy  mill; 
Let  him  sing  his  giant  strength  and  speed: 

Why,  a  single  shaft  of  mine 
Would  give  that  monster  a  flight,  indeed. 

To  the  depths  of  the  ocean  brine. 

No,  no!  I'm  the  spirit  of  light  and  love: 

To  my  unseen  hand  'tis  given 
To  pencil  the  ambient  clouds  above, 

And  polish  the  stars  of  heaven. 

115 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


I  scatter  the  golden  rays  of  fire 

On  the  horizon  far  below, 
And  deck  the  skies  where  storms  expire 

With  my  red  and  dazzling  glow. 

The  deepest  recesses  of  earth  are  mine — 

I  traverse  its  silent  core; 
Around  me  the  starry  diamonds  shine, 

And  the  sparkling  fields  of  ore; 
And  oft  I  leap  from  my  throne  on  high, 

To  the  depths  of  the  ocean's  caves, 
"Where  the  fadeless  forests  of  coral  lie, 

Far  under  the  world  of  waves. 

My  being  is  like  a  lovely  thought 

That  dwells  in  a  sinless  breast; 
A  tone  of  music  that  ne'er  was  caught — 

A  word  that  was  ne'er  expressed. 
I  burn  in  the  bright  and  burnish'd  halls, 

Where  the  fountains  of  sunlight  play — 
Where  the  curtain  of  gold  and  opal  falls 

O'er  the  scenes  of  the  dying  day. 

With  a  glance  I  cleave  the  sky  in  twain, 

I  light  it  with  a  glare, 
When  fall  the  boding  drops  of  rain 

Through  the  darkly- curtain'd  air; 
The  rock- built  towers,  the  turrets  gray, 

The  piles  of  a  thousand  years, 
Have  not  the  strength  of  potters'  clay 

Before  my  glittering  spears. 

From  the  Alps'  or  the  highest  Andes'  crag, 
From  the  peaks  of  eternal  snow, 


SOXG  OF  LIGHTXIXG. 


The  dazzling  folds  of  my  fiery  flag 

Gleam  o'er  the  world  below; 
,The  earthquake  heralds  my  coming  power, 

The  avalanche  bounds  ,  away. 
And  howling  storms  at  midnight  hour 

Proclaim  my  kingly  sway. 

Ye  tremble  when  my  legions  come — 

T\^hen  my  quivering  sword  leaps  out 
O'er  the  hills  that  echo  my  thunder- di^um, 

And  rend  with  my  joyous  shout: 
Ye  quail  on  the  land  or  upon  the  seas, 

Y'e  stand  in  youi'  fear  aghast, 
To  see  me  burn  the  stalwart  trees, 

Or  shiver  the  stately  mast. 

The  hieroglyphs  on  the  Persian  wall, 

The  letters  of  high  command. 
"Where  the  prophet  read  the  tyi-ant's  fall, 

Were  traced  with  my  burning  hand: 
And  oft  in  fii'e  have  I  wi'ote  since  then, 

What  angiy  Heaven  decreed — 
But  the  sealed  eyes  of  sinful  men 

Were  all  too  blind  to  read. 

At  last  the  hour  of  light  is  here, 

And  kings  no  more  shall  blind. 
Nor  the  bigots  crush  with  craven  fear 

The  forward  march  of  mind: 
The  words  of  Truth,  and  Freedom's  rays 

Ai^e  fi'om  my  pinions  hurl'd, 
And  soon  the  sun  of  better  days 

Shall  rise  upon  the  world. 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


But  away,  away,  through  the  sightless  air, 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread; 
For  I  would  not  soil  my  sandals  fair 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread. 
Ay,  rear  it  upon  its  million  piers — 

Let  it  circle  the  world  around, 
And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hundred  years 

I'll  clear  at  a  single  bound! 


THE  YOUTH  WHO  PLAYED  BEFORE  HE  LOOKED. 


A  yontti  Avent  forth  to  serenade 
The  lady  Avhom  he  loved  the  best, 

And  passed  beneath  the  mansion's  shade 
^liere  first  his  charmer  used  to  rest. 

He  warbled  till  the  morninrr  light 
Came  dancing  o'er  the  hilltops'  rim; 

But  no  fair  maiden  blessed  his  sio-ht. 
And  all  seemed  dark  and  drear  to  him. 

With  heart  aglow  and  eyes  ablaze 
He  drew  much  nearer  than  before, 

"WTien,  to  his  horror  and  amaze, 
He  saw    To  Let  *'  upon  the  door. 


THE  TWO  VILLAGES. 

ROSE  TEEEY  COOKE. 


Over  the  river  on  the  hill, 
Lieth  a  village  white  and  still; 
All  around  it  the  forest  trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze. 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go, 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow; 
And  mountain  grasses,  low  and  sweet, 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  every  street. 

Over  the  river  under  the  hill, 
Another  village. iieth  still; 
There  I  see  in  the  cooling  night. 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light. 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy  door, 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river  shore; 
And  in  the  road  no  grasses  grow. 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill, 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill ; 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and  flowers, 

Never  a  clock  to  tell  the  hours ; 

The  marble  doors  are  always  shut; 

You  may  not  enter  at  hall  or  hut. 

^  120 


THE   TWO  VILLAGES. 


121 


All  the  village  lies  asleep. 
Never  a  grain  to  sow  or  reap : 
Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh — 
Silent — and  idle — and  low— they  lie 

In  the  village  under  the  hill, 
AVhen  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 
Many  a  weary  soul  in  prayer 
Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 
And  weeping  and  sighing,  longs  to  go 
Up  to  that  home  from  this  below — 
Longs  to  sleep  by  the  forest  wild, 
Whither  have  vanished  wife  and  child, 
And  heareth,  praying,  the  answer  fall — 
''Patience!  That  village  shall  hold  ye  all!" 


4 


THE  LOVER. 


C.  PATMORE. 


He  meets,  by  heavenly  chance  express, 

His  destined  wife;  some  hidden  hand 
Unvails  to  him  that  lovehness 

Which  others  cannot  understand. 
No  songs  of  love,  no  summer  dreams 

Did  e'er  his  longing  fancy  fire 
With  vision  like  to  this;  she  seems 

In  all  things  better  than  desire. 
His  merits  in  her  presence  grow. 

To  match  the  promise  in  her  eyes, 
And  round  her  happy  footsteps  blow 

The  authentic  airs  of  Paradise. 
The  least  is  well,  yet  nothing's  light 

In  all  the  lover  does;  for  he 
Who  pitches  hope  at  such  a  height 

Will  do  all  things  with  dignity. 
She  is  BO  perfect,  true,  and  pure. 

Her  virtue  all  virtue  so  endears. 
That  often,  when  he  thinks  of  her. 

Life's  meanness  fills  his  eyes  with  tears. 

f 

122 


GOD'S  WAYS. 


God  speaks  to  hearts  of  men  in  many  ways: 
Some  the  red  banner  of  the  rising  sun. 

Spread  o'er  the  snow- clad  hills,  has  taught  his  praise; 
Some  the  sweet  silence  when  the  day  is  done; 
Some,  after  loveless  lives,  at  length  have  won 

His  word  in  children's  hearts  and  children's  gaze. 

And  some  have  found  him  whore  low  rafters  ring 
To  greet  the  hand  that  helps,  the  heart  that  cheers: 

And  some  in  prayer  and  some  in  perfecting 
Of  watchful  toil  through  unrewarding  years. 

And  some  not  less  are  his,  who  vainly  sought 
His  voice,  and  they  with  silence  have  been  taught — 
Who  bare  his  chain  that  bade  them  to  be  bound, 
And,  at  the  end,  in  finding  not,  have  found. 


—The  Spectator. 


DEAD. 

ALMA  LATTIN. 


Within  the  flower- lined  casket  she  was  laid, 

Without  a  tear,  without  a  moan; 
The  very  life  blood  of  my  heart  seemed  stayed — 

Earth's  light  to  deepest  darkness  grown. 

I  laid  my  darling  down  without  a  sigh, 
For  grief  for  words  was  all  too  deep; 

My  anguished  heart  could  only  send  one  cry: 
"  O  God,  in  heaven,  my  darling  keep! 

"  I  cannot  lose  her;  she's  my  only  one; 

Oh,  let  me  to  her.  Lord,  I  pray!  " 
But  oh!  the  golden  light  of  setting  sun 

Shone  on  her  fair,  but  lifeless  clay. 

I  know  my  darling's  shining  form  will  wait 
Beyond  this  world,  where  grief's  dark  night 

Enshrouds  my  saddened  life, — at  heaven's  gate 
I'll  meet  my  child  where  all  is  light. 

124 


PAETING. 


In  the  wood,  love,  when  we  parted, 
Birds  were  singing  loud  and  clear; 

Silent  stood  we,  broken  hearted; 
Parting  words  are  hard  to  hear; 

Great  our  love,  and  great  our  anguish, 

Doomed  apart  to  coldly  languish! 

Must  it  be  forever,  love  ? 

All  without  was  gay  around  us; 

All  within  was  cold  and  bleak! 
Grief  and  pain  in  silence  bound  us; 

Parting  Avords  are  hard  to  speak! 
Singing  birds,  why  mock  our  sorrow  ? 
Know  ye  that  we  ]3art  to-mon'ow? 

Trouble  not  our  last  farewell. 

Nature  knows  no  pain  or  sadness; 

Bird  and  flow"r  and  bee  rejoice! 
Yet  I  cannot  bear  their  gladness, 

And  I  hate  their  cheerful  voice! 
Oh,  farewell,  my  love,  forever! 
Widely  now  oui-  pathways  sever, 

Never  shall  we  meet  again. 


125 


A  BEAUTIFUL  LEGEND. 


OFTLYfell  the  touch  of  twilight  on  Judea's  silent 
hills; 

Slowly  crept  the  peace  of  moonlight  o'er  Judea's 
trembling  rills. 

In  the  temple's  court,  conversing,  seven  elders 
sat,  apart; 

Seven  grand  and  hoary  sages,  wise  of  head  and 
pure  of  heart. 

"What's  best?"said  Rabbi  Judah,  he  of  stern  and  steadfast 
gaze; 

"Answer,  ye  whose  toils  have  burdened  through  the  march 
of  many  days." 

"  To  have  gained,"  said  Rabbi  Ezra,  "  decent  wealth  and 
goodly  store. 

Without  sin,  by  honest  labor — nothing  less  and  nothing 
more." 

"To  have  found,"  said  Rabbi  Joseph — meekness  in  his  gentle 

eyes — 

"A  foretaste  of  heaven's  sweetness  in  home's  blessed  par- 
adise." 

126 


A  BEAUTIFUL  LEGEND.  127 

"  To  have  wealth  and  power  and  glory,  cro\^^led  and  bright- 
ened by  the  pride 
Of  uprising  chikben's  children,"  Eabbi  Benjamin  rej^lied. 

*'  To  have  won  the  praise  of  nations,  to  have  won  the  crown 
of  fame," 

Kabbi  Solomon  responded,  faithful  to  his  kingly  name. 

"  To  sit  throned,  the  lord  of  millions,  tirst  and  noblest  in 
the  land," 

x4.nswered  haughty  Rabbi  Asher,  youngest  of  the  reverend 
band. 

■''All  in  vain,"  said  Rabbi  Jairus,  "  unless  faith  and  hope 
have  traced 

In  the  soul  Mosaic  presents,  by  sin's  contact  uneffaced." 

Then  uprose  wise  Rabbi  Judah,  tallest,  gravest  o{  ^hem  all, 
"  From  the  heights  of  fame  and  honor  even  valiant  souls  may 
fall. 

"Love  may  fail  us;  virtue's  sapling  grow  a  diy  and  thorny 
rod. 

If  we  bear  not  in  our  bosoms  the  unselfish  love  of  God." 

In  the  outer  couii  sat  plajdng  a  sad-featui-ed,  fair- haired 
child; 

His  young  eyes  seemed  wells  of  sorrow — they  were  God-like 
when  he  smiled! 

One  by  one  he  di'opped  the  lilies,  softly  plucked  with  child- 
ish hand; 

One  by  one  he  viewed  the  sages  of  that  grave  and  hoary 
band. 


128  GEMS  or  POETRY. 

Step  by  step  he  neared  them  closer,  till  encircled  by  the 
seven, 

Then  he  said,  in  tones  untrembling,  with  a  smile  that 
breathed  of  heaven, 

"Nay,  nay,  fathers;  only  he  within  the  measure  of  whose 
breast 

Dwells  the  human  love  with  God-love,  can  have  found  life's 
truest  rest; 

"  For  where  one  is  not  the  other  must  grow  stagnant  at  its 
spring, 

Changing  good  deeds  into  phantoms — an  unmeaning,  soul- 
less thing. 

"  Whoso  holds  this  precept  truly,  owns  a  jewel  brighter  far 
Than  the  joys  of  home  and  children — than  wealth,  fame  and 
glory  are; 

"  Fairer  than  old  age  thrice  honored,  far  above  tradition's 
law, 

Pure  as  any  radiant  vision  ever  ancient  prophets  saw. 

"Only  he  within  the  measure — faith  apportioned — of  whose 
breast 

Throbs  the  brother- love  with  God- love,  knows  the  depth  of 
perfect  rest." 

Wondering  gazed  they  at  each  other,  once  broke  silence  and 
no  more: 

"He  has  spoken  words  of  wisdom  no  man  ever  spake 
before!" 


A  BEAUTIFUL   LEGEND.  129 

Calmly  passing  fi'om  their  presence  to  the  fountain's  rippling 
song, 

Stooped  he  to  uplift  the  lilies  strewed  the  scattered  sprays 
among. 

Fairitly  stole  the  shades  of  eyening  through  the  massiye 
open  door: 

Whitely  lay  the  peace  of  moonlight  on  the  temple's  marble 
floor. 

Where  the  elders  lingered,  silent  since  he  spake,  the  Unde- 
filed, 

"Where  the  Wisdom  of  the  ages  sat  amid  the  flowers — a  child. 


"FATHER,  WHATE'ER  OF  EARTHLY  BLISS.'^ 


A.  STEELE. 


Father,  whate'er  of  earthly  bliss 

Thy  sovereign  will  denies, 
Accepted  at  thy  throne  of  grace. 

Let  this  petition  rise : 

Give  me  a  calm  and  thankful  heart, 

From  every  murmur  free, 
The  blessings  of  thy  love  impart, 

And  help  me  live  to  thee. 

Let  the  sweet  hope  that  thou  art  mine 

My  life  and  death  attend; 
Thy  presence  through  my  journey  shine, 

And  crown  my  journey's  end. 


130 


*'  As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river." 


132 


A  ]VrUSICAL  INSTRTOIENT. 


E.  B.  BEOWXING. 


HAT  was  he  doin.^,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  re  ^ds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
I'-K'S)  And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
AVith  the  di'agon-fly  on  the  river  ? 

\ 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep,  cool  bed  of  the  river, 

The  limpid  water  tnrbidly  ran. 

And  the  broken  lilies  a -dying  lay, 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  tui'bidly  flowed  the  river, 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  gi-eat  god  can 
With  his  hard,  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed. 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  fi'om  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan. 
( How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  ! ) 

133 


134 


A  MUSICAL  ll^STRUMEJsT. 


Then  drew  the  pith  like  the  heart  of  a  man^ 
Steadily  from  the  outsiae  ring, 
Then  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sate  by  the  river. 

"  This  is  the  way,"  langhed  the  great  god  Pan, 
(Laughed  while  he  sate  by  the  river!) 

"  The  only  way  since  gods  began 

To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed; " 

Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan, 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river, 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  di'^. 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river. 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man. 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  the  pain: — 
For  the  reed  that  grows  nevermore  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 


THE  DYING  GLADIATOR. 


LORD  BTROX. 


I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie: 

He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony. 

And  his  droop* d  head  sinks  gi'adually  low — 

And  through  his  side  the  last  di'ops,  ebbing  slow 
T'rom  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder  shower:  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone. 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd  the  -wi'etch  who 
won. 

He  heard  it.  but  he  heeded  not— his  eyes 

"Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away. 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother. — he.  their  sire, 

Butcher' d    to  make  a  Eoman  holiday- 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood — shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged? — Arise!  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire! 


135 


THE  TEACHEE'S  DREAM. 


W.  H.  VENABLE. 

HE  weary  teacher  sat  alone 

While  twilight  gathered  on; 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard  around, 
The  boys  and  girls  were  gone. 

The  weary  teacher  sat  alone, 
Unnerved  and  pale  was  h3; 
Bowed  'neath  a  yoke  of  care,  he  spoke 
In  sad  soliloquy: 

Another  round,  another  round. 
Of  labor  thrown  away — 
Another  chain  of  toil  and  pain 
Dragged  through  a  tedious  day. 

"  Of  no  avail  is  constant  zeal, 

Love's  sacrifice  is  loss. 
The  hopes  of  morn,  so  golden,  turn,. 

Each  evening,  into  dross. 

I  squander  on  a  barren  field 
My  strength,  my  life,  my  all; 


136 


THZ    TEACHEE  S  DEEA31. 


The  seeds  I  sow  will  never  gi'ow. 
Tliev  perish  where  they  fal].'" 

He  sighed,  and  low  upon  his  hands 

His  aching  brow  he  prest: 
And  o'er  his  frame  ere  long  there  came 

A  soothing  sense  of  rest. 

And  then  he  hfted  up  his  face. 

But  staited  back  aghast — ^ 
The  room  bv  strangle  and  sudden  chano-e 

Assumed  proportions  vast. 

It  seemed  a  Senate -hall,  and  one 

Addi'essed  a  Hstening  thi'ong: 
Each  burning  word  all  bosoms  stUTed, 

Applause  rose  loud  and  long. 

The  ' wilder ed  teacher  thought  he  knew 

The  speaker's  voice  and  look. 
••'And  for  his  name."  said  he.  "the  same 

Is  in  my  record  book.*" 

The  stately  Senate-hall  dissolved — 

A  chui'ch  rose  in  its  place. 
Wherein  there  stood  a  man  of  God. 

Dispensing  words  of  gi'ace. 

And  though  he  spoke  in  solemn  tone. 

And  though  his  hair  was  gi'ay. 
The  tea-cher's  thought  was  strangely  wi'ought 

"  I  whipped  that  boy  to-day." 

The  chiu'ch.  a  phantasm,  vanished  soon — 
"What  saw  the  teacher  then  ? 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


In  classic  gloom  of  alcoved  room 
An  author  plied  his  pen. 

"My  idlest  lad!  "  the  teacher  said, 
Filled  with  a  new  surprise — 

"  Shall  I  behold  his  name  enrolled 
Among  the  great  and  wise  ?  " 

The  vision  of  a  cottage  home 

The  teacher  now  descried; 
A  mother's  face  illumed  the  place 

Her  influence  sanctified. 

"A  miracle!  a  miracle! 

This  matron,  well  I  know, 
Was  but  a  wild  and  careless  child, 

Not  half  an  hour  ago. 

"  And  when  she  to  her  children  speaks 

Of  duty's  golden  rule, 
Her  lips  repeat,  in  accents  sweet. 

My  words  to  her  at  school." 

The  scene  was  changed  again,  and  lo, 
The  school -house  rude  and  old. 

Upon  the  wall  did  darkness  fall. 
The  evening  air  was  cold. 

^' A  dream!  "  the  sleeper,  waking,  said, 
Then  paced  along  the  floor. 

And  whistling  slow  and  soft  and  low, 
He  locked  the  school-house  door. 


THE   TEACHER'S  DREAM. 


And,  walking  home,  his  heart  was  full 
Of  peace  and  trust  and  love  and  praise; 

And  singing  slow  and  soft  and  low, 
He  murmured,  "  After  many  days." 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATEKS. 

TOM  MOORE. 


There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet,  / 
As  that  vale, in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet; 
Oh!  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  fi'om  my  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Natm-e  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green; 
'Twas  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 
Oh!  no  — it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'Twas  that  friends,  the  belgv'd  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve. 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca!  how  calm  could  I  rest 
In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best. 
Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  shoul<? 
cease. 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 


140 


•     THE  LOST  CHOED. 


A.   A.  PEOCTEE. 


Seated  one  dav  at  the  oro-an. 

I  was  weary  and  ill  at  ease. 
And  my  tingers  wandered  idly 

Over  the  noisy  keys. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  was  playing. 

Or  what  I  was  di'eaniing  then; 
But  I  struck  one  chord  of  music , 

Like  the  sound  of  a  great  Amen: 

It  dooded  the  crimson  twilio-ht. 

Like  the  close  of  ail'  angel's  psalm, 
And  it  lay  on  my  fevered  spirit 

AVith  a  touch  of  intinite  calm. 

It  quieted  pain  and  sorrow. 

Like  love  overcoming  strife: 
It  seemed  the  harmonious  echo 

From  our  discordant  life. 

It  hnked  all  j)erplexed  meanings 
Into  one  perfect  peace, 

liL 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  trembled  away  into  silence 
As  if  it  were  loth  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 
That  one  lost  chord  divine, 

That  came  from  the  soul  of  the  organ, 
And  entered  into  mine. 

4 

It  may  be  that  death's  bright  angel 
Will  speak  in  that  chord  again; 

It  may  be  that  only  in  heaven 
I  shall  hear  that  grand  Amen. 


EXTRACTS  FEOM  L'ALLEGEO." 


J.  mLTON. 


'ASTE  thee,  nvmph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  J ollity. 
Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  \yiles, 
Xods,  and  becks,  and  \\Teathed  smiles. 
'  Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  loye  to  liye  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport  that  m'inkled  Care  derides. 
And  Laughter  holdino^  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it.  as  you  go. 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe: 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 
And.  singing,  startle  the  dull  night. 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-moiTOW, 
Tkrough  the  sweet-briar  or  the  yine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine: 

143 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 
*       *        *        *       *  * 

Sometime  walking,  not  unseen. 
By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state,  . 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrow' d  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe. 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale, 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures ; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray,  > 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied. 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where,  perhaps,  some  beauty  lies. 
The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met. 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 


EXTRACTS  FROM       L' ALLEGRO. 

Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
AMiich  the  neat-handed  PhilHs  di'esses: 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestyhs  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 
Or,  if  the  earher  season  lead. 
To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight, 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 
"When  the  meny  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid 
Dancing  in  the  checker'd  shade: 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday. 
Till  the  live-lono'  davlio-ht  fail: 

*         ^  ^  * 

Tower'd  cities  please  us  then. 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men. 

"Wliere  thi'ono-s  of  knio-hts  and  barons  bold, 

In  weeds  of  j)eace,  high  triumphs  hold. 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Eain  infltience,  and  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 

In  saffron  robe.  Avith  taper  clear. 

And  pom|),  and  feast,  and  revelry. 

With  mask  and  antique  pageantry: 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare.  Fancy's  child. 


10 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


AVarble  his  native  wood -notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 
In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunnings 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony. 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head, 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heap'd  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regain'd  Eurydice. 
These  delights  if  thou  canst  give. 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


148 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 


BIXGEX  OX  THE  EHIXE. 


IIES.    C.    E.    S.  XOETOy. 


SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers. 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was 

dearth  of  woman's  tear-: 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him. while  his  Ufe- 

blood  ebbed  away. 
And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  h.^ 
might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered,  and  he  took  that  cojni'ade's  hand. 
And  he  said.  '*  I  never  more  shall  see  my  own.  my  native 
land: 

Take  a  message. and  a  token,  to  some  distant  fiiends  of  mine. 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen.— fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

•"Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and 
crowd  around, 

To  hear  my  moiirnful  stoiy.  in  the  pleasant  vineyard  ground, 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day  was 
done, 

Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the  setting  sun; 
And,  mid  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some  gTOwn  old  in  wars. 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of  manv 
scares; 

14!) 


150 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn  de- 
cline^ — 

And  one  had  come  from  Bingen, — fair  Bingen  on  the  Khine. 

"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  comfort  her  old 
age; 

For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  n  cage. 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce 
and  wild; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  tJaey  would,  but  kept  my  father's 
sword; 

And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light  used 
to  shine, 

On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen^ — calm  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  drooping 
head. 

When  troops  come  marching  home  again  with  glad  and 
gallant  tread, 

But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  steadfast  eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not  afraid  to  die; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  b.r  in  my  name 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame. 
And  to  han[T  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  father's  sword 
and  mine). 

For  the  honor  of  old  Bmgen^ — dear  Bingen  on  the  Bhine. 

"There's  another, — not  a  sister;  in  the  happy  days  gone  by 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled  in 
her  eye ; 

Too  innocent  for  coquetry—  too  fond  for  idle  scorning ^ — 


bi>Xte:;  oy  the  rhine. 


151 


0  Mend !  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes  heaviest 

mourning  I 

Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  ( for.  ere  the  morn  be  risen, 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of  prison) 

1  di'eamed  I  stood  with  her.  and  saw  the  yellow  stmlight 

shine 

On  the  rine-clad  hills  of  Bingen.  — f air  Bingen  on  the  Ehine. 

^'I  saw  the  blue  Khine  sweep  along;  I  heard,  or  seemed  to 
hear. 

The  German  songs  we  tised  to  sing,  in  chortis  sweet  and 
clear: 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill, 
The  echoino^  chorus  sounded,  throusfh  the  eveninCT  calm  and 
still: 

And  hej  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me.  as  we  passed,  \rith 
fiiendly  talk. 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well  -  remembered 
walk  I 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine,  — 
Bfit  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen,— loved  Bingen  on  the 
Ehine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  his  grasp  was 

childish  weak. — 
'His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  he  sighed. and  ceased  to  speak: 
His  comi'ade  bent  to  lift  him.  but  the  sparks  of  life  had  fled, 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  dead! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  looked 

down 

On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field  with  bloody  corses  strewn; 
Yes,  calmly,  on  that  di^eadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed 
to  shine. 

As  it  shone  on  distant  Bincrenr-fair  Bino^en  on  the  Rhine. 


SONNET  ON  HIS  BLINDESS. 


J.  MILTON. 


When  I  consider  how  my  hght  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he,  returning  chide; 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied ?  " 
I  fondly  ask:  but  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts;  who  best 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best;  his  state 
Is  kingly :  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


152 


TWO  LOYEKS. 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


WO  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring: 

They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there. 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heard  the  wooinoj  thrushes  sinoj. 
O  bndding  time! 
O  love's  blest  prime! 


Two  wedded  fi'om  the  portal  stept : 
The  bells  made  happy  carollings, 
The  air  was  soft  as  fannino-  Avino;s, 
^Miite  petals  on  the  pathway  slept. 
O  pure-eyed  bride ! 
O  tender  pride! 

Two  faces  o'er  a  cradle  bent: 

Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locned; 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked, 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 
O  solemn  hour! 
O  hidden  power! 


Two  parents  by  the  evening  fire: 

The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Like  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 

O  patient  life! 
O  tender  strife! 

The  two  still  sat  together  there, 

The  red  light  shown  about  th^ir  knees; 
But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 
O  voyage  fast! 
O  vanished  past! 

The  red  light  shone  upon  the  floor 

And  made  the  space  between  them  wide  ; 
They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 
Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said,  "Once  more! 
O  memories ! 
O  past  that  is! 


EXTEACTS  FEOM  -CRITICISM." 


A.  POPE. 


OME  beauties  vet  no  precepts  can  declare. 
For  there's  a  happiness  as  well  as  care. 
Music  resembles  poetry:  in  each 
Are  nameless  graces  which  no  methods  teach. 
And  which  a  master-hand  alone  can  reach. 
If.  where  the  rules  not  far  enough  extend. 
(Since  rules  were  made  but  to  promote  their 
end) 

Some  lucky  license  answer  to  the  full 

The  intent  proposed,  that  license  is  a  rule. 

Thus  Pegasus,  a  nearer  way  to  take. 

May  boldly  deviate  from  the  common  track. 

Great  wits  sometimes  may  gloriously  offend. 

And  rise  to  faults  true  critics  dare  not  mend; 

From  Tulgar  bounds  with  brave  disorder  part. 

And  snatch  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art. 

^Tuch.  without  passing  through  the  judgment,  gains 

The  heart,  and  all  its  end  at  once  attains. 

*  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

A  little  learnino;  is  a  dano-erotis  thing  i 
Drink  deep  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring: 


155 


156 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain, 

And  di'inking  largely  sobers  us  again. 

Fired  at  first  sight  with  what  the  Muse  imparts, 

In  fearless  youth  w^e  tempt  the  heights  of  arts, 

While  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind, 

Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths  behind; 

But  more  advanced,  behold  with  strange  surprise 

New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise ! 

So  pleased  at  first  the  towering  Alps  we  try. 

Mount  o'er  the  v^ales  and  seem  to  tread  the  sky. 

The  eternal  snows  appear  already  pass'd, 

And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  last: 

But,  those  attained,  we  tremble  to  survey 

The  growing  labors  of  the  lengthen' d  way, 

The  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wandering  eyes, 

Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise! 
*  *  *  *  * 

Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see. 
Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 
In  every  work,  regard  the  writer's  end, 
Since  none  can  compass  more  than  they  intend; 
And  if  the  means  be  just,  the  conduct  true, 
Applause  in  spite  of  trivial  faults  is  due. 
As  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit. 
To  avoid  great  errors,  much  the  less  commit; 
Neglect  the  rules  each  verbal  critic  lays, 
For  not  to  know  some  trifles  is  a  praise. 
Most  critics,  fond  of  some  subservient  art, 
Still  make  the  whole  depend  upon  a  part; 
They  talk  of  principles,  but  notions  prize. 
And  all  to  one  loved  folly  sacrifice. 

■5K  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dress' d; 


EXTRACTS   FEOM  ^"CEITICISM." 


157 


TMiat  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed; 
Something,  whose  truth,  cominced  at  sight  we  find, 
That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 
As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light. 
So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit. 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ¥^ 

In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold; 
Ahke  fantastic,  if  too  new,  or  old: 
Be  not  the  fii^st  by  whom  the  new  are  tried, 
Xor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  song. 
And  smooth  or  rouoii.  with  them,  is  rio^ht  or  wrong:: 
In  the  bright  Muse,  though  thousand  charms  conspire, 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire: 
AVho  haunt  Parnassus  btit  to  please  their  ear. 
Xot  mend  their  minds:  as  some  to  church  repair, 
Xot  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there.  " 
These  equal  syllables  alone  require, 
Though  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire; 
AMiile  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join: 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line : 

hile  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chimes, 
AVith  siu'e  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes: 
"Where'er  you  find    the  cooling  western  breeze," 
In  the  next  line,  it  '"whispers  thi'ough  the  trees:" 
If  crystal  streams  ''with  pleasing  murmurs  creep," 
The  reader's  thi^eaten'd  (not  in  vain)  ''with  sleep:" 
Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet  fi'aught 
Y,  i:h  some  unmeanino-  thino- thev  call  a  thouo-ht. 
A  needless  Alexandi'ine  ends  the  song, 
That  like  a  wounded  snake,  ch'ags  its  slow  length  along. 
Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes  and  know 
What's  roundlv  smooth,  or  lanc^uishinoiv  slow; 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  praise  the  easy  vigor  of  a  line, 

Where  Denham's  strength  and  Waller's  sweetness  join. 

True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 

As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learn' d  to  dance. 

'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence, 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense. 

Soft    is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows ; 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 

The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar: 

When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 

The  line  too  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow: 

Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain. 

Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main. 

Hear  how  Timotheus'  varied  lays  surprise. 

And  bid  alternate  passions  fall  and  rise! 

While  at  each  change  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove 

Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with  love; 

Now  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow. 

Now  sighs  steal  out^  and  tears  begin  to  flow : 

Persians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature  found, 

And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdued  by  sound. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

Some  ne'er  advance  a  judgment  of  their  own. 

But  catch  the  spreading  notion  of  the  town; 

They  reason  and  conclude  by  precedent. 

And  own  stale  nonsense  which  they  ne'er  invent. 

Some  judge  of  authors'  names,  not  works,  and  then 

Nor  praise  nor  blame  the  writings,  but  the  men.  , 

Of  all  this  servile  herd,  the  worst  is  he 

That  in  proud  dulness  joins  with  quality. 

A  constant  critic  at  the  great  man's  board, 

To  fetch  and  carry  nonsense  for  my  lord. 


EXTRACTS  FEOM  "CRITICISM. 

What  woful  stuff  this  madrigal  would  be, 
In  some  starved  hackney  sonneteer,  or  me! 
But  let  a  lord  once  own  the  happy  lines, 
How  the  wit  brightens !  how  the  style  refines ! 
Before  his  sacred  name  flies  every  fault, 
And  each  exalted  stanza  teems  with  thought! 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

To  what  base  ends,  and  by  what  abject  ways, 
Are  mortals  urged  through  sacred  lust  of  praise! 
Ah  ne'er  so  dire  a  thirot  of  glory  boast, 
Nor  in  the  critic  let  the  man  be  lost. 
Good-nature  and  good-sense  must  ever  join; 
To  err  is  human,  to  forgive — divine. 

^  ^  ^  ^  2Ll  JiLi 

7^  7j\  -  vjr  TfT  yf^  -yjz 

Be  silent  always,  when  you  doubt  your  sense; 
And  speak,  though  sure,  with  seeming  diffidence: 
Some  positive,  persisting  fops  we  know. 
Who,  if  once  wrong,  will  needs  be  always  so; 
But  you,  with  pleasure  own  your  errors  past, 
4.nd  make  each  day  a  critique  on  the  last. 


'4 


MEMOEIES. 


BAREY  CORNWALL. 

ING  a  low  song  ! 

A  tender  cradle  measure  soft  and  low, 

Not  sad  or  long, 
But  such  as  we  remember  long  ago, 

When  Time,  now  old,  was  flying 
Over  the  sunny  seasons  bright  and  fleet, 

And  the  red  rose  was  lying 
Amongst  a  crowd  of  flowers  all  too  sweet. 


160 


GOD  KNOWETH. 


MRS.   MAEY  G.   BEAINAED,   CHANGED  BY  P.   P.  BLISS. 


I  know  not  what  awaits  me, 
God  kindly  veils  mine  eyes. 

And  o'er  each  step  of  my  onward  way 
He  makes  new  scenes  to  rise; 

And  every  joy  he  sends  me.  comes 
A  sweet  and  glad  surprise. 

"WTiere  he  may  lead  Pll  follow, 

My  trust  in  Him  repose; 
And  every  horn-  in  perfect  peace 

I'll  sing,  He  knows,  He  knows. 

One  step  I  see  before  me, 

'Tis  all  I  need  to  see. 
The  light  of  heaven  more  brightly  shines, 

^\Tien  earth's  illusions  flee; 
And  sweetly  through  the  silence,  came 

His  loving  ''Follow  Me.'' 

O  blissful  lack  of  wisdom, 
'Tis  blessed  not  to  know; 
He  holds  me  with  His  own  right  hand, 

11  161 


162 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  will  not  let  me  go, 
And  lulls  my  troubled  soul  to  rest 
In  Him  who  loves  me  so. 

So  on  I  go  not  knowing, 

I  would  not  if  I  might; 
rd  rather  walk  in  the  dark -with  God 

Than  go  alone  in  the  light; 
I'd  rather  walk  by  faith  with  Him 

Than  go  alone  by  sight. 


164 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


"Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing  away!" 


ODE  TO  THE  LAEK. 


J.  HOGG. 


Bird  of  the  wilderness. 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea! 

Emblem  of  happiness. 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place; 
O,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud ; 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth, 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 
O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 

O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 
Over  the  rainbow's  rim. 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  sino^ino^  awav ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes. 
Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 


165 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling  place, 

O,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee! 


PATRIOTISM. 


SIR  W.  SCOTT. 


Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned. 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


167 


SONG  ON  MAY  MORNING. 


J.  MILTON. 


Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who,  from  her  green  lap,  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire; 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing. 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 


168 


MY  ANGEL 


I 

EMILY  HUNTIXGTOX  MILLER. 


'  LOA\'LY  the  night  is  falling, 
Falling  down  from  the  hill, 
And  all  in  the  low  gi'een  valley 
The  dew  lies  heaw  and  chill; 
The  crickets  cry  in  the  hedges, 

And  the  bats  are  ending  low, 
And  like  ghosts  through  the  blossoming  garden 
The  glimmering  night-moths  go. 

Hand  in  hand  throng^h  the  twiliD;ht 

Come  the  childi-en  every  one, 
Flushed  vvith  their  eager  frolic, 

Ta^vny  with  wind  and  sun ; 
Home  fr'om  the  sunny  uplands 

^Miere  the  sweet  wild  bemes  grow, 
Home  fr'om  the  tangled  thickets 

A^^iere  the  nuts  are  ripening  slow. 


They  mock  at  the  owPs  wefrd  laughter 

And  the  cricket's  lonesome  cry, 
At  the  tardy  swallows  flying 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

Late  through  the  darkening  sky; 
And  silently  gliding  after, 

Through  the  dusk  of  the  shadowy  street, 
Comes  their  little  angel  sister, 

Star  white  from  her  head  to  her  feet — 

Never  crossing  the  threshold, 

Come  they  early  or  late; 
With  her  empty  hands  on  her  bosom, 

She  stops  at  the  cottage  gate. 
I  stretch  out  my  arms  in  longing, 

But  she  fades  from  my  aching  sight. 
As  a  little  white  cloud  at  morning 

Vanisnes  into  the  light. 

And  spite  of  the  shining  garments 

Folded  about  her  now. 
And  spite  of  the  deathless  beauty 

Crowning  her  lip  and  brow, 
I  wish  for  one  passionate  moment 

She  sat  on  my  knee  again; 
On  her  feet,  so  spotless  and  tender. 

The  dust  and  the  earthly  stain. 

For  missing  her  morning  and  evening, 

The  bitterest  thought  must  be 
That  safe  with  her  blessed  kindred 

The  child  hath  no  need  of  me; 
And  counting  her  heavenly  birthdays, 

I  say  in  my  jealous  care: 
"  The  babe  that  lay  on  my  bosom 

Hath  grown  to  a  maiden  fair; 

"And  now  if  out  of  the  glory 


MY  ANGEL. 

Her  face  like  a  star  should  shine, 
Could  I  guess  the  beautiful  changeling 

Had  ever  on  earth  been  mine  ? 
I  should  veil  my  eyes  at  her  splendor, 

But  never  forget  my  lack 
For  the  clincrinof  hands  of  mv  babv, 

And  the  mouth  that  kissed  me  back." 

Yet  though  in  my  human  blindness 

I  cannot  fathom  His  way 
Who  counts  His  glorious  cycles 

A  thousand  years  as  a  day; — 
^\Tienever  the  cloud  is  lifted, 

"Whenever  I  cross  the  tide. 
Mine  own  He  will  surely  give  me 

And  I  shall  be  satisfied. 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE  DREAM. 


NETTIE  P.  HOUSTON. 


E  all  have  waking  -visions — I  have  mine, 
And  being  young,  and  fanciful,  and  counted  fai 
I  sometimes  dream  of  love. 
And  sitting  all  alone,  and  musing  still, 
AYhile  yet  the  firelight  flickers  dim, 
I  ask  myself  if  I  should  learn  to  love. 
If  my  still  heart  could  wake  to  life, 
How  would  I  love,  and  how  would  I  be  loved; — 
I  would  be  loved  in  calmness —  ' 
Trusted  and  not  feared. 
I  do  not  ask  that  he  be  proud  and  cold, 
But  calm,  and  grave,  and  very  strong — 
A  King,  like?  Saul,  among  the  sons  of  men, 
And  kinglier  o'er  himself. 
He  must  not  tremble  at  my  slightest  frown 
Nor  shudder  if  another  meets  my  eye; 
I  would  not  rule,  nor  yet  would  I  be  ruled; 
I  scorn  the  tyrant  as  I  scorn  his  slave. 
There  is  a  love  of  sweet  equality,  ' 
The  love  God  gave  and  smiled  upon, — 
For  it  was  very  good. 
He  whom  I  love  must  be  my  king. 


A  WOMAN  S  LOVE  DREAIVI. 


But  I  must  be  his  queen; 

And  he  should  yield  me,  as  my  tribute  due, 

The  reverence  I  had  earned. 

Not  only  by  my  womanhood,  but  by  all  gentleness, 
Long-suffering,  the  patient  sweetness. 
Only  love  can  teach; 

For  looking  on  me  he  should  feel  and  know 
That  peace  and  rest  which  follow  after  toil. 
I  do  not  ask  for  him  the  world's  applause, 
His  deeds  the  annals  of  a  nation's  pride. 
His  name  upon  the  lips  of  men; 
But  I  must  feel  his  power — 

Must  know  he  could  be  what  earth's  heroes  are — 
I  could  not  love  him  were  he  not  thus  great. 
His  hand  must  be  both  safe  and  strong; 
As  hand  to  shield,  to  trust,  to  lay  my  own  within. 
To  stake  my  life  upon; 

A  hand  that  might  have  fought  with  Hercules, 

Yet  would  not  harm  the  worm  in  his  path, 

For  tho'  the  heart  of  woman  loveth  oft 

A  thing  she  doth  unwillingly  despise, 

It  is  a  pitiful,  imperfect  love  that  hath  not 

For  its  corner-stone  the  rock  of  Faith. 

His  heart  must  be  most  tender  and  most  true — 

A  heart  that  loves,  and  pities,  and  befriends 

Earth's  suffering  children,  whether  high. 

Or  yet  among  the  lovely  and  the  poor. 

And  he  must  love  me  perfectly. 

If  I  should  ever  meet  this  man, 

While  he  bent  down  to  kiss  my  shining  hair. 

Or  smooth  its  clusters  from  their  clinging  rest, 

A  sweet  unspoken,  language  in  his  touch 

Would  lift  my  bright  eyes  to  the  light  of  his; 


174 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And,  as  in  fair  Judea,  when  the  world  was  young, 
Sarah  with  reverence  said  to  Abraham, 
My  lips  should  call  him  "  Lord!  " 


176 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


BUGLE  SONG. 


A.  TEXNYSON. 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 

O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  d}dng,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


12 


177 


BEAUTY:  A  SONNET. 


W.  SHAKSPERE. 


O  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 

By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 

For  that  sweet  odor  which  doth  in  it  hve. 
The  canker-blooms  have  fall  as  deep  a  dye. 

As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 

When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses 
But  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 

They  live  unwoo'd,  and  unrespected  fade; 
Die  to  themselves.    Sweet  roses  do  not  so ; 

Of  their  sweet  breaths  are  sweetest  odors  made. 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 
When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distils  your  truth. 


178 


THEY  WENT  A-FISHING. 


One  morning,  when  Spring  was  in  her  teens — 

A  morn  to  a  poet's  wishing 
All  tinted  in  delicate  pinks  and  greens — 

Miss  Bessie  and  I  went  fishing; 

I  in  my  rough  and  easy  clothes, 

With  my  face  at  the  sunshine's  mercy; 

She  with  her  hat  tipped  down  to  her  nose 
And  her  nose  tipped — vice  versa. 

I  with  my  rod,  and  reel  and  hooks, 
And  a  hamper  for  lunching  recesses ; 

She  with  the  bait  of  her  comely  looks, 
And  the  seine  of  her  golden  tresses. 

So  we  sat  down  on  the  sunny  dike, 
Where  the  white  pond  lilies  teeter. 

And  I  went  to  fishing,  like  quaint  old  Ike, 
And  she  like  Simon  Peter. 

AW  the  noon  I  lay  in  the  light  of  her  eyes, 
And  dreamily  watched  and  waited; 

But  the  fish  were  cunning  and  would  not  rise, 
And  the  baiter  alone  was  baited. 

And,  when  the  time  for  departure  came, 


179 


180 


GEMS  OF  POETRY, 


The  bag  was  flat  as  a  flounder; 
But  Bessie  had  neatly  hooked  her  game — ' 
A  hundred- and- eighty  pounder. 


SABBATH  MORNING  THOUGHTS. 


E.    P.  BEOTHWELL. 


Afar  in  the  gleaming  orient,  the  amber  gates  saving  wide, 
And  from  his  lair  the  day- king  stalks  thro'  in  peerless  pride 
The  darkness  flyeth  affrighted,  the  flowers  look  up  thro' 
tears, 

As  a  lost  child  greets  its  mother,  forgetting  all  its  fears. 

Up,  np  till  the  walls  of  the  city  are  burning  like  molten  gold, 
And  hall,  and  cottage,  and  chiii'cli- spire  gleam  bright  in 

the  shining  fold; 
But  the  city  is  husht  and  silent,  her  thousand  tongues  are 

dumb, 

Like  the  tents  of  a  sleeping  army,  that  wait  the  rolling 
dium. 

The  clock  high  up  in  the  church-tower  tells  "  Seven "  in 
ringing  peals; 

Yet  no  tramping  upon  the  pavement,  no  crash  of  rolling 
wheels ; 

No  answering  chime  fi'om  work- shops — labor  hath  rest  to- 
day— 

No  patter  of  little  footsteps,  no  childish  shouts  in  play. 

181 


18'2 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Life  weareth  no  outward  tokens,  until  on  the  morning  air 
The  Sabbath  bells'    silvery  chiming,  telleth  the  hour  of 
prayer, 

Throbbing  thro  all  the  city,  and  the  worshipers  come  and 
go, 

Like  the  wave  of  the  restless  ocean  continues  to  and  fro. 

We  sit  in  the  softened  sunlight  that  falls  thro'  the  tinted 
panes. 

With  pulsing  heart  uplifted  by  the  organ's  lofty  strains; 
We  echo  the  old  petition  that  reverently  is  said, 
The  old  all-time  petition  asking  for  daily  bread; 

For  strength  to  resist  temptation,  fi'om  evil  to  be  set  free. 
Giving  the  glory  and  honor  and  power,  O  God,  to  thee; 
But  oh,  with  our  human  passions,  how  scarcely  dare  we 
pray, 

"As  we  forgive,  O  Father,  forgive  us  our  sins  this  day. 

"As  we  forgive,  O  Father!  "  were  this  the  heartfelt  cry 
Surging  from  every  altar,  up  to  thy  throne  on  high. 
How  we,  thy  erring  children,  should  reach  a  tender  hand 
To  every  sin- wreck' d  struggler  upon  life's  crowded  strand! 


"  Mother, come  back  from  the  echoless  shore."  184: 


ROCK  M'E  TO  SLEEP.  MOTHER. 


:MIIS.    ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEX. 


ACK^ARD.  tiu'ii  backward.  0  Time,  in  jom 
flight. 

Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night  I 
Mother,  come  back  fi'om  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  vour  heart  as  of  yore; 
Kiss  fi'om  my  forehead  the  fnrrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  thi^eads  ont  of  my  hair,* 
]         Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep: — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  motheiy-rock  me  to  sleep! 

Backward,  floAV  backward.  O  tide  of  the  years! 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, — 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain. — 
Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again ! 
I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, — 
"SVeaiw  of  flinging  my  soul- wealth  away;- 
"W^ary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  motheiy-rock  me  to  sleep? 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue. 
Mother,  0  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you  I 

185 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed,  and  faded  our  faces  between, 
Yet  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Comes  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep; — 
Kock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me,  to  sleep  1 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother- love  ever  has  shone; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours: 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Snading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light: 
For  with  it-s  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep ; — 
Rock'meto  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song: 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep! 


ODE  TO  THE  BEAVE. 


W.  OOLLIXS. 


How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  conntrv's  wishes  blest! 
"When  Spring  with  dewv  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow' d  mold, 
She  there  shall  di'ess  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  diro-e  is  suno-; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgTim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay, 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there! 


"WHEN  TO  THE  SESSIONS." 


SHAKSPERE. 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste: 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancelled  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanished  sight. 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone. 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore -bemoaned  moan, 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
AJl  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 


188 


THE  BIVOUAC  GF  THE  DEAD. 


T.  o'hAEA. 


HE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping  ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 
The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms, 
No  braying  horn  or  screaming  fife 

At  the  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 
Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed, 

Their  haughty  banner  trailed  in  dust, 
Is  now  their  martial  shroud — 


189 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 
The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 

And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 
Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast. 
The  charge,  the  fearful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past — 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal. 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  its  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain. 

Came  down  the  serried  foe — 
"Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath. 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  victory  or  death. 

Full  many  a  mother's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain. 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  moldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay. 
Alone  now  wake  each  solemn  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  dark  and  bloody  ground; 
Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  BEAD. 


XVTiere  stranger  steps  and.  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air ; 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  TOur  fitter  grave; 
She  claims  from  war  her  richest  spoil — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  fi'om  the  gory  field. 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield. 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sty- 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here. 
And  kindi'ed  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Eest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave. 
Xo  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave. 
iSOT  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

"While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

"Where  Valor  proudly  sleej^s. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell. 
"WTien  many  a  vanished  year  hath  flown 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wi^eck,  nor  change,  nor  Winter's  blight 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Can  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 


THE  TRUE  POET. 


FROM   bailey's   "  FESTUS." 


HE  world  is  full  of  glorious  likenesses. 
The  poet's  power  is  to  sort  these  out, 
And  to  make  music  with  the  common  strings 
With  which  ^he  world  is  strung;  to  make  the 
dumb 

Earth  utter  heavenly  harmony,  and  draw 
Life  clear  and  sweet  and  harmless  as  spring 
water 

Welling  its  way  thro'  flowers. 


The  poet's  pen  is  the  true  divining  rod 

WTiich  trembles  toward  the  inner  founts  of  feeling; 

Bringing  to  light  and  use  else  hid  from  all, 

The  many  sweet,  clear  sources  which  we  have 

Of  good  and  beauty  in  our  own  deep  bosoms, 

And  mocks  the  variations  of  all  mind 

As  does  the  needle  an  air-investing  storm's. 
*  *  *  * 

Experience  and  imagination  are 
Mother  and  sire  of  song — the  harp  and  hand. 
The  bard's  aim  is  to  give  us  thoughts,  his  art 
Liieth  in  giving  them  as  bright  as  may  be. 


192 


THE   TRUE  POET. 


193 


And  even  when  their  looks  are  earthly,  still 

If  opened,  like  geodes,  they  may  be  found 

Full  of  sparkling,  spany  loveliness. 

They  should  be  wought.  not  cast ;  like  tempered  steel, 

Burned  and  cooled,  bui-ned  again,  and  cooled  again. 

A  thought  is  like  a  ray  of  light — complex 

In  natui'e — simple  only  in  effect. 

Words  are  the  motes  of  thought,  and  nothing  more; 

Words  are  like  sea-shells  on  the  shore;  they  show 

"WTiere  the  mind  ends,  and  not  how  far  it  has  been. 

Let  every  thought,  too,  soldier-like,  be  stripped 

And  roughly  looked  over. 

A  mist  of  words, 

Like  halos  round  the  moon,  though  they  enlarge 

The  seemino^  size  of  thouo'hts,  make  the  li^^ht  less 

Doubly.    It  is  the  thought  writ  down  we  want. 

Not  its  effect — not  likenesses  of  likenesses. 

And  such  descriptions  are  not,  more  than  gloves 

Instead  of  hands  to  shake,  enough  for  us. 
*  *  * 

Great  bards  toil  much  and  most,  but  most  at  fii'st  . 
Ere-  they  can  learn  to  concentrate  the  soul 
For  hours  upon  a  thought  to  carry  it. 

Some  never  rise  above  a  petty  fault. 
And  of  whose  best  things  it  is  kindly  said. 
The  thought  is  fair;  but  to  be  perfect  wants 
A  little  hightening,  like  a  pretty  face 
With  a  low  forehead. 

Some  steal  a  thought 
And  clip  it  round  the  edge,  and  challenge  him 

13 


194 


GEMS  OF  POETKY. 


Whose  'twas  to  swear  to  it. 

*  *  * 

What  of  style? 
There  is  no  style  is  good,  but  nature's  style. 
And  the  great  ancient's  writings  beside  ours 
Look  like  illuminated  manuscripts 
Before  plain  press  print;  all  had  different  minds, 
And  followed  only  their  own  bents ;  for  this 
Nor  copied  that,  nor  that  the  other;  each 
Is  finished  in  his  writing;  each  is  best 
For  his  own  mind  and  that  it  was  upon; 
And  all  have  lived,  are  living,  and  shall  live; 
But  these  have  died,  are  dying,  and  shall  die; 
Yea,  copyists  shall  die,  spark  out  and  out. 
Minds  which  combine  and  make  alone  can  tell 
The  bearings  and  workings  of  all  things 
In  and  upon  each  other. 

"H^  "^i^"  ^  ^ 

And  he  who  means  to  be  a  great  bard,  must 
Measure  himself  against  pure  mind  and  fling 
His  soul  into  a  stream  of  thought,  as  will 

A  swimmer  hurl  himself  into  the  water. 

*  *  *  * 

Write  to  the  mind  and  heart,  and  let  the  ear 

Glean  after  what  it  can.    The  voice  of  great 

Or  graceful  thoughts  is  sweeter  far  than  all 

Word  music ;  and  great  thoughts,  like  great  deeds,  need 

No  trumpet.    Never  be  in  haste  wi'iting. 

Let  that  thou  utterest  be  of  nature's  flow. 

Not  art's — a  fountain's,  not  a  pump's.    But  once 

Begun,  work  thou  all  things  into  thy  work; 

And  set  thyself  about  it,  as  the  sea 


THE  TRUE  POET.  FRIENDSHIP. 


About  eaiili,  lashing  at  it  day  and  night ; 
And  leave  the  stamp  of  thine  own  soul  in  it 
Ab  thorough  as  the  fossil  flower  in  clay. 


195 


FEIENDSHIP. 


SHAKSPERE. 


I  count  myself  in  nothing  else  so  happy, 
As  in  a  soul  remembering  my  good  friends; 
And,  as  my  fortune  ripens  with  my  love, 
It  shall  be  still  thy  ti'ue  love's  recompense. 


THE  FINEST  ENGLISH  EPIGRAM. 


DR.  DODDRIDGE. 


Live  while  you  live,"  the  epicure  would  say, 
And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present  day. 
"  Live  while  you  live,"  the  sacred  preacher  cries, 
And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies. 
Lord,  in  my  view,  let  both  united  be; 
I  live  in  pleasure  while  I  live  to  thee. 


\ 


OUR  IXFAXT  IN  HEAVEN. 


ILENCE  filled  the  courts  of  heaven, 

Hushed  were  angel  harp  and  tone, 
As  w  little  new-born  spirit 

Knelt  before  the  eternal  throne : 
While  her  small  white  hands  were  lifted, 

Clasped  as  if  in  earnest  prayer, 
And  her  A'oice  in  low,  sweet  murmurs, 
Rose  like  music  on  the  air. 
Light  fi^om  the  full  fount  of  glory 

On  her  robes  of  whiteness  glistened, 
And  the  bright- winged  seraphs  round  her 
Bowed  their  radiant  heads  and  listened: 

Lord!  from  thy  throne  of  glory  here 

My  heart  turns  fondly  to  another ; 
O,  Lord,  our  God,  the  comforter. 

Comfort,  comfort  my  sweet  mother! 
Many  soitows  hast  thou  sent  her. 

Meekly  has  she  di^ained  the  cup. 
And  the  jewels  thou  h'ast  lent  her, 

Lnrepining,  yielded  up — 
Comfort,  comfort  my  sweet  mother. 

Earth  is  frowning  darkly  round  her. 
Many,  many  hast  thou  taken, 

]97 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

Let  her  not,  though  clouds  surround  her, 

Feel  herself  of  thee  forsaken. 
Let  her  think,  when  faint  and  weary, 

We  are  waiting  for  her  here; 
Let  each  lossThat  makes  earth  dreary, 

Make  the  thought  of  heaven  more  dear — 
Comfort,  comfort  my  sweet  mother. 

Savior!  thou  in  nature  human, 

Dwelt  on  earth  a  little  child. 
Pillowed  on  the  breast  of  woman, 

Blessed  Mary!  undefiled. 
Thou,  who  from  the  cross  of  suffering, 

Marked  thy  mother's  tearful  face. 
And  bequeathed  her  to  thy  loved  one, 

Bidding  him  to  fill  thy  place — 
Comfort,  comfort  my  sweet  mother. 

Thou,  who  from  the  heaven  descending, 

Tears,  and  woes,  and  suffering  won; 
Thou,  who  Nature's  laws  suspending. 

Gave  the  widow  back  her  son; 
Thou,  who  at  the  grave  of  Lazarus, 

Wept  with  those  who  wept  their  dead; 
Thou,  who  once  in  mortal  anguish. 

Bowed  thy  own  anointed  head — 
Comfort,  comfort  my  sweet  mother! 

The  dove-like  murmurs  died  away 

Upon  the  radiant  air, 
But  still  the  little  suppliant  knelt, 

With  hands  still  clasped  in  prayer; 
Still  were  her  softly-pleading  eyes 

Turned  to  the  sapphire  throne, 


OUR   INFANT   IN   HEAVEN.  WOMAN. 

Till  golden  liarp  and  angel  voice 

Eano^  out  in  uiio^litA'  tone; 
And  as  tlie  silvery  numbers  swelled. 

By  seraph  voices  given. 
High,  clear,  and  sweet  the  anthem  rolled 

Through  all  the  court  of  heaven. 


WOMAN. 

E.    S.  BARRET. 


Not  she  with  traitorous  Mss  her  Savior  stung, 
Not  she  denied  him  with  unholy  tongue: 
She,  w^hile  apostles  shrank,  could  dangers  brave, 
Last  at  the  cross  and  earliest  at  the  grave. 


THE  CHILD  OF  A  KING. 


HATTIE   E.  BUELL. 


My  father  is  rich  in  houses  and  lands, 
He  holdeth  the  wealth  of  the  world  in  his  hands! 
Of  rubies  and  diamonds,  of  silver  and  gold: 
His  coffers  are  full,  he  has  riches  untold. 

My  Father's  own  Son,  the  Savior  of  men, 
Once  wandered  o'er  earth  as  the  poorest  of  men, 
But  now  He  is  reigning  forever  on  high, 
And  will  give  me  a  home  in  heaven  by  and  by. 

I  once  was  an  outcast  stranger  on  earth, 

A  sinner  by  choice,  an  "alien"  by  birth! 

But  I've  been  "adopted,"  my  name's  written  down 

An  heir  to  a  mansion,  a  robe,  and  a  crown. 

A  tent  or  a  cottage,  why  should  I  care  ? 
They're  building  a  palace  for  me  over  there! 
Tho'  exiled  from  home  yet,  still  I  may  sing, 
All  glory  to  God,  I'm  the  child  of  a  King. 

I'm  the  child  of  a  King, 

The  child  of  a  King; 
With  Jesus,  my  Savior, 

I'm  the  child  of  a  King. 

_  200 


202 


jrraine  bonffsters. 


'•THE  PKECIOUS  GIFT  OF  SONG," 


If  in  one  poor  bleeding  bosom 

I  a  woe- swept  chord  have  stilled ; 
If  a  dark  and  restless  spirit 

I  with  hope  of  heaven  have  filled; 
If  I've  made,  for  life's  hard  battle, 

One  faint  heart  grow  brave  and  strong — 
Then,  my  God,  I  thank  thee,  bless  thee. 

For  the  precious  gift  of  song. 


MAPY   LOUISA  CHITWOOD. 


WHICH  SHALL  IT  BE? 


ELIZABETH  AKEES  ALLEN. 


HIGH  shall  it  be?  which  shall  it  be?" 
I  looked  at  John — John  looked  at  me, 
Dear  patient  John,  who  loves  me  yet 
As  well  as  though  my  locks  were  jet, 
And  when  I  found  that  I  must  speak, 
My  voice  seemed  strangely  low  and  weak, 
"Tell  me  again  what  Kobert  said," 
f         And  then  I  listened,  bent  my  head. 
"This  is  his  letter." 

^  "I  will  give 

A  house  and  land  while  you  shall  live, 
If  in  return  from  out  your  seven. 
One  child  to  me  for  aye  is  given." 
I  looked  at  John's  old  garments  worn, 
I  thought  of  all  that  J ohn  had  borne 
Of  poverty  and  work  and  care, 
Which  I,  though  willing  could  not  share; 
Of  seven  hungry  mouths  to  feed, 
Of  seven  little  children's  need, 
And  then  of  this. 

204 


WHICH  SHALL   IT  BE? 


"Come  John,"  said  I, 
"We'll  choose  among  them  as  they  lie  asleep," 
So  walking  hand  in  hand, 
Dear  J ohn  and  I  surveyed  our  band. 
First  to  the  cradle  lightly  stepped, 
Where  Lilian,  the  baby  slept; 
Her  damp  curls  lay,  like  gold  alight, 
A  glory  'gainst  the  pillow  white; 
Softly  her  father  stooped  to  lay 
His  rough  hand  down  in  a  loving  way, 
When  dream  or  whisper  made  her  stir. 
And  huskily  he  said,  "not  her." 

We  stepped  beside  the  trundle  bed. 

And  one  long  ray  of  lamp-light  shed 

Athwart  the  boyish  faces  there, 

In  sleep  so  pitiful  and  so  fair, 

I  saw  on  Charlie's  rough  red  cheek 

A  tear  undried,  ere  John  could  speak; 

He's  but  a  baby,  too,"  said  I, 
And  kissed  him  as  we  hurried  by. 

Pale,  patient  Eobby's  angel  face 
Still  in  his  sleep  bore  suffering's  trace; 
"  Nay,  for  a  thousand  crowns  not  him," 
He  whispered  while  our  eyes  were  dim. 
Poor  Dick!  sad  Dick!  our  wayward  son, 
Turbulent,  reckless,  idle  one — 
Could  he  be  spared.    Nay,  he  who  gave 
Bids  us  befiiend  him  to  the  grave; 
Only  a  mother's  heart  can  be 
Patient  enough  for  such  as  he; 

And  so  said  John,  "I  would  not  dare 


GEMS  OF  POETRl. 


To  send  him  from  our  bedside  prayer.'* 

Then  stole  we  lightly  up  above, 

And  knelt  by  Mary,  child  of  love; 

"Perhaps  for  her  it  would  better  be," 

I  said  to  John,  quite  silently. 

He  lifted  up  a  curl  that  lay 

Across  her  cheek  in  willful  way, 

And  shook  his  head,  "Nay,  love,  not  thee;" 

The  while  my  heart  beat  audibly. 

Only  one  more,  our  oldest  lad. 
Trusty  and  truthful,  good  and  glad. 
So  like  his  father,  "No,  John,  no: 
I  can  not,  will  not,  let  him  go." 
And  we  wrote  in  courteous  way. 
We  would  not  give  one  child  away; 
And  afterward  toil  brighter  seemed, 
Thinking  of  that  of  which  we  dreamed, 
Happy,  in  truth,  that  not  one  face, 
We  missed  from  its  accustomed  place; 
Thankful  to  work  for  all  of  the  seven. 
Trusting  then  to  One  in  heaven. 


AT  CHESS. 


SALLIE  A.  BROCK. 

BOVE  a  checkered  table  they  bent — 

A  man  in  his  prime  and  a  maiden  fair, 
Over  whose  polished  and  blue-veined  brow 

Rested  no  shadowy  tinge  of  care. 
Her  eyes  were  fountains  of  sapphire  light : 

Her  lips  wore  the  curves  of  cheerful  thought; 
And  into  her  gestures  and  into  her  smile 
Grace  and  beauty  their  spell  had  fi'aught. 

Above  the  checkered  table  they  bent, 

Wfitching  the  pieces,  red  and  white, 
As  each  moved  on  in  appointed  course 

Through  the  mimic  battle's  steady  tight — 
The  queen,  in  her  stately,  regal  power: 

The  kmg,  to  her  person  friendly  shield; 
The  mitred  bishop,  with  his  support, 

And  the  massive  castle  across  the  field; 

The  pawn,  in  his  slow  and  cautious  pace, 
A  step  at  a  time ;  and  the  mounted  kmght, 

Vaulting,  as  gallant  horseman  of  old, 
To  the  right  and  left,  and  left  and  right. 

But  a  single  word  the  silence  broke, 

207 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


As  they  cleared  aside  the  ruin  and  wreck 
Of  the  battle's  havoc;  and  that  word 
Was  the  little  monosyllable  "Check!" 

Pawns,  and  bishops,  and  castles,  and  knights 

Trembled  together  in  sad  dismay. 
While  a  pair  of  hearts  were  pulsing  beside 

To  a  deeper,  wilder,  sweeter  play. 
Yet  the  gaze  of  each — the  man  and  the  maid — 

On  the  board  was  fastened  for  turn  of  fate. 
When  she  archly  whispered,  with  radiant  glance, 

And  a  sparkling  smile:  "If  you  please,  sir,  mate!' 

And  gently  her  fluttering  triumph-hand, 

As  white  as  a  flake  of  purest  pearl. 
She  laid  on  the  crown  of  her  victor -king. 

While  the  other  toyed  with  a  wanton  curl. 
He  lifted  the  first  to  his  smiling  lips 

And  on  it  imprinted  a  trembling  kiss; 
And  he  murmured  softly:  "  I  should  not  care 

For  losing  the  game  could  I  win  but  this!" 

What  the  maiden  answered  'twere  treason  to  tell, 

As  her  blushes  deepened  to  crimson  glow, 
Mounting  like  lightning  flashes  quick 

Till  they  burned  on  cheeks,  and  ears  and  brow. 
And  in  three  months'  time  the  church-bells  rang, 

And  the  parson  finished  the  game  begun. 
When  both  wore  the  conqueror's  triumph -smile, 

And  both  were  happy,  for  both  had  won. 

— Appleton's  Journal 


THE  SHELL. 


A.  TEXXrSON. 


See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pm-e  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  di^-ine, 
Made  so  f  airily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design! 

What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn. 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  liis  house  in  a  rainbow  frill "? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl' d, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  f any  horn 
Thi'o'  his  dim  water-world? 

209 


210 


GEMS  OF  POETEY. 


Slight,  to  be  crush' d  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger  nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine. 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand! 


A  HUNDEED  YEARS  FEOM  NOW. 


MES.    MAEY  A.   TOED  ('TNA.'") 


.  Though  bravely  sails  our  bark  to-day.  pale  death 


EE  surging  sea  of  human  life  forever  onward 


And  few^hall  know  we  ever  lived  a  hundred 


And  bears  to  the  eternal  shore  its  daily  fi'eight 


sits  at  the  prow. 


rolls, 


of  souls; 


A^ears  from  now. 


O  mighty  human  brotherhood!  why  fiercely  war  and  strive, 
^\Taile  God's  great  world  has  ample  space  for  everything 
alive '? 

Broad  fields,  uncultured  and  unclaimed,  are  waiting  for  the 
plow 

Of  progress  that  shall  make  them  bloom  a  hundi'ed  years 
from  now. 

Why  should  we  try  so  earnestly  in  life's  short  narrow  span, 
On  golden  stah's  to  climb  so  high  above  our  brother  man  ? 
Why  blindly  at  an  earthly  shi'ine  in  slavish  homage  bow  ? 
Our  gold  will  rust,  ourselves  be  dust,  a  hundi^ed  years  from 


now! 


211 


212 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


"Why  prize  so  much  the  world's  applause  ?    Why  dread  so 

much  its  blame? 
A  fleeting  echo  is  its  'Voice  of  censure  or  of  fame ; 
The  praise  that  thrills  the  heart,  the  scorn  that  dyes  with 

shame  the  brow, 
Will  be  as  long -forgotten  dreams  a  hundred  years  from  now. 

O  patient  hearts,  that  meekly  bear  your  weary  load  of  wrong! 
O  earnest  hearts,  that  bravely  dare,  and,  striving,  grow  more 
strong ! 

Press  on  till  perfect  peace  is  won;  you'll  never  dream  of  how  \ 
You  struggled  o'er  life's  thorny  road  a  hundred  years  from 
now. 

Grand,  lofty  souls,  who  live  and  toil  that  freedom,  right  and 
truth 

Alone  may  rule  the  universe,  for  you  is  endless  youth; 
When  'mid  the  blest,  with  God  you  rest,  the  grateful  lands 
shall  bow 

Above  your  clay  in  rev'rent  love  a  hundred  years  from  now. 

Earth's  empires  rise  and  fall,  O  Time  I  like  breakers  on  thy 
shore ; 

They  rush  upon  thy  rocks  of  doom,  go  down,  and  are  no 
more ; 

The  starry  wilderness  of  worlds  that  gem  night's  radiant 
brow 

AYill  light  the  skies  for  other  eyes  a  hundred  years  from  now. 

Our  Father,  to  whose  sleepless  eyes  the  past  and  future 
stand 

An  open  page,  like  babes  we  cling  to  thy  protecting  hand; 
Change,  sorrow,  death  are  naught  to  us  if  we  may  safely  bow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  Thy  throne,  a  hundred  years  from 
now. 


CHRISTMAS  CHIMES. 

VARIOUS  AUTHORS. 


Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn. 

Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  fi'om  night; 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  hght 

The  hght  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born. 

— Tenxyson. 

This  day 

Shall  change  aJl  griefs  and  quarrels  into  love. 

— Shakspere. 

Light  on  thy  hills,  Jerusalem! 

The  Savior  now  is  born! 
And  bright  on  Bethlehem's  joyous  plains 

Breaks  the  first  Christmas  morn. 

— E.  H.  Sears. 

This  happy  day,  whose  risen  sun 

Shall  set  not  through  eternity ; 
This  holy  day  when  Christ,  the  Lord, 

Took  on  Him  our  humanity. 

 PHEBE  GARY. 


213 


I 


214  GEMS   OF  POETRY. 

Immortal  Babe,  who  this  dear  day, 
Didst  change  Thine  Heaven  for  our  clay, 
And  didst  with  flesh  thy  God- head  veil, 
Eternal  Son  of  God,  all  hail! 

— Bishop  Hall. 

There's  a  song  in  the  air,  there's  a  star  in  the  sky, 
There's  a  mother's  deep  prayer,  and  a  baby's  low  cry, 
And  the  star  rains  its  fire  while  the  beautiful  sing. 
For  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  cradles  a  king. 

— JosiAH  Gilbert  Holland. 

With  gentle  deeds  and  kindly  thoughts 

And  loving  words,  withal, 
Welcome  the  merry  Christmas  in, 

And  hear  a  brother's  call. 

— F.  Lawrence. 

But  the  star  that  shines  in  Bethlehem 
Shines  still,  and  shall  not  cease. 

And  we  listen  still  to  the  tidings 
Of  glory  and  of  peace. 

— Adelaide  A.  Procter. 

Who  taught  mankind  on  that  first  Christmas  day. 
What  'twas  to  be  a  man;  to  give,  not  take; 
To  serve,  not  rule;  to  nourish,  not  devour; 
To  help,  not  crush;  if  need,  to  die,  not  live? 

 C.  KiNGSLEY. 

The  poor  will  many  a  care  forget. 
The  debtor  think  not  of  his  debt. 
But  as  they  each  enjoy  their  cheer. 
Wish  that  'twere  Christmas  all  the  year. 

— Thomas  Miller. 


CHRISTMAS  CHIMES. 


215 


"Tr^-as  Christmas  broached  the  raightiest  ale; 
'Twas  Christmas  told  the  memest  tale; 
A  Chi'istmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 

— Sir  Walter  Scott. 

As  fits  the  holy  Chi'istmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 

Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 
To  men  of  gentle  will. 

— AV.  M.  Thackeray. 


A  SONG  OF  HOME. 

EMILY  C.   H.  MILLER. 


LL  day  in  the  deepening  sunlight 
The  tops  of  the  mountain  glow, 
All  night  the  white  waves  of  the  moonlight 
Roll  down  to  the  valleys  below. 

I  sit  by  my  window  and  listen 

To  the  voice  of  the  whispering  breeze, 
As  it  bears  me  the  breath  of  the  clover, 
And  the  murmurous  hum  of  the  bees. 

But  away  over  meadow  and  upland, 
A  thousand  swift  fancies  have  flown, 

To  see  how  around  the  old  homestead 
The  glory  of  summer  has  shone. 

I  see  it  again  in  my  dreaming; 

The  twilight  is  heavy  and  deep, 
And  across  the  green  fields  of  the  barley 

The  night- winds  come  wooing  to  sleep. 

I  can  hear  through  the  hush  how  the  water 

Goes  chiming  along  by  the  mill, 
With  a  tune  that  begins  at  the  sunset, 


216 


A  SOyG   or  HOME. 


TMien  the  sound  of  the  grinding  is  still. 

O  sweet  as  a  mother's  Ioav  singing 

To  the  baby  aslee^^  on  her  breast, 
Eino^s  out  that  soft  sono;  of  the  water. 

When  the  t^^-ilight  di'ops  down  from  the  west! 

How  white  throtigh  the  boughs  of  the  maple 
Gleams  out  the  low  cottage  I  love, 

AVith  the  moonlight  asleep  on  the  threshold, 
And  the  stars  keeping  vigils  above! 

All  hushed!  but  I  know  by  the  hearth  stone 
They  knelt  at  the  nightfall  to  pray. 

And  remembered  with  fond  benediction 
The  loved  who  have  wandered  away. 

And  one  hath  no  need  of  their  praying. 

For  once,  when  the  summer  was  bright, 
She  passed  through  the  valley  of  shadow 

To  the  gates  of  the  city  of  light. 

And  kneeling  alone  with  our  sorrow — 

Alone  on  that  sorrowful  shore, 
"We  wept  when  we  thought  how  her  footsteps 

Would  never  come  back  any  more. 

For  the  brows  that  eternity  crowneth 

May  never  be  saddened  by  woe. 
And  the  lips  that  have  sung  with  the  angels 

Are  silent  forever  below. 


WHEN  THE  SONG'S  GONE." 


["When  the  song's  gone  out  of  your  life,  you  can't  start  another 
while  it's  a-ringing  in  your  ears,  but  it's  best  to  have  a  bit  of  silence^ 
and  out  o'  that  maybe  a  psalm'll  come  hy-and-hy"-Edward 

Garrett.] 

HEN  the  song's  gone  out  of  your  life, 

That  you  thought  would  last  to  the  end — 
That  first  sweet  song  of  the  heart, 

That  no  after  days  can  lend — 
The  song  of  the  birds  to  the  trees, 

The  song  of  the  wind  to  the  flowers, 
The  sono^  that  the  heart  sino^s  low  to  itself 
When  it  wakes  in  life's  morning  hours. 

a  You  can  start  no  other  song," 

Not  even  a  tremulous  note 
Will  falter  forth  on  the  empty  air, 

It  dies  in  your  aching  throat. 
It  is  all  in  vain  that  you  try, 

For  the  spirit  of  song  has  fled — 
The  nightingale  sings  no  more  to  the  rose 
When  the  beautiful  flower  is  dead. 

So  let  silence  softly  fall 

On  the  bruised  heart's  quivering  strings; 
Perhaps  from  the  loss  of  all 

218 


"when  the  song's  gone,"  MUSIC. 


219 


You  may  learn  the  song  that  the  seraph,  sings ; 
A  grand  and  glorious  psalm 

That  will  tremble,  and  rise  and  thrill, 
And  fill  your  breast  with  its  grateful  rest, 

And  its  lonely  yearnings  still. 


-  Boston  Transcript. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 


WILLIAM  HO  WITT. 


ND  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 
Who  beheld  it? 
Which  way  sailed  it? 
Farewell  bade  it  none? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go; — 
But  who  doth  hear 
Its  summer  cheer 
As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro? 

So  the  freed  spirit  flies ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay- 
It  steals  away 

Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

Whither  ?  wherefore  doth  it  go  ? 

'Tis  all  unknown; 

We  feel  alone 
That  a  void  is  left  below. 


220 


THE  BRIDGE. 


H.   W.  LONGFELLOW. 


[By  permission  of  HoughtoD,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 

As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 
And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 
In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 
And  sinkinof  into  the  sea. 


And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Amono^  the  lonc^.  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 
Eose  the  belated  tide. 


221 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 
The  sea-weed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  O  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight, 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky! 

How  often,  O  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me. 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea; 
And  only  the  sorrow    of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers. 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 
Of  care- encumbered  men, 


THE  BRIDGE. 


Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow. 
Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fi'O. 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  I 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  llows. 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  waverinc^  imao^e  here. 


NEVER  FAILED  US. 


Upon  the  sadness  of  the  sea, 
The  sunset  broods  regretfully; 
From  the  far,  lonely  spaces,  slow 
Withdraws  the  wistful  afterglow. 

So  out  of  life  the  splendor  dies; 
So  darken  all  the  happy  skies ; 
So  gathers  twilight,  cold  and  stern, 
But  overhead  the  planets  burn; 

And  up  the  east  another  day 
Shall  chase  the  bitter  dark  away; 
What  though  our  eyes  with  tears  be  wet  ? 
The  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet. 

The  blush  of  dawn  may  yet  restore 
Our  light  and  hope  and  joy  once  more: 
Sad  soul,  take  comfort,  nor  forget 
That  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet. 


224 

r 


SONGS. 


SHAKSPEKE. 


AEIET/S  SONG. 

HEEE  tlie  bee  sucks,  there  lurk  I; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 
^There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry; 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly. 
After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now. 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 


THE  FAIEY  TO  PUCK. 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 
Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 
Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere, 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere. 
And  I  serve  the  Fairy  Queen; 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green ; 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be, 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see, — 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors ; 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 


15 


225 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowshp's  ear, 

AMIENS'S  SONG. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen. 
Because  thou  art  not  seen. 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot: 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 


HARK  !  HARK !  THE  LARK  ! 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On^  chaliced  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary  buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
"With  everything  that  pretty  bin ; 

My  lady  sweet,  arise. 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD-TREE. 

Under  the  greenwood-tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 


SONGS. 


227 


Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  Avinter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  cloth  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


THE  SABBATH  OF  THE  SOUL. 


Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born ; 
Ye  shall  not  dim  the  light  that  streams 

From  this  celestial  morn. 

To-morrow  will  be  time  enough 

To  feel  your  harsh  control; 
Ye  shall  not  violate,  this  day. 

The  Sabbath  of  my  soul. 

Sleep,  sleep  forever,  guilty  thoughts ; 

Let  fires  of  vengeance  die; 
And,  purged  from  sin,  may  I  behold 

A  God  of  purity ! 


MRS.   ANNA  L.  BARBAULD. 


228 


THE  BOWEE  OE  BLISS. 


E.  SPEXSZE. 


HEEE  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground 

Itself  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye. 
In  which  all  pleasiii'es  plenteonsly  abound, 
And  none  does  others'  happiness  emy; 
The  painted  flo^ver5.  the  trees  iijDshooting 
high. 

The  dales  for  shade,  the  hills  for  breathing 
space. 

The ti'embling  groves,  the  crystal  running  by. 

And  that  which  all  fair  Avorks  doth  most  aggrace. 
The  art.  which  all  that  wi'oiight.  appeared  in  no  placo. 

One  would  have  thought  (so  cunningly  the  rude 

And  scorned  parts  were  mingled  vvith  the  hnei 
That  natui'e  had  for  wantonness  ensued 
Art.  and  that  art  at  nature  did  repine: 
So  stiiving  each  the  other  to  tmdennine. 
Each  chd  the  other's  work  more  beautify: 
So  differing  both  in  wills,  agi^eed  in  line: 
So  all  agi'eed  through  sweet  diversity. 
This  gai'den  to  adorn  with  all  variety. 


230  GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

Eftsoons  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 

Of  all  that  might  delight  a  dainty  ear, 
Such  as  at  once  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  paradise  be  heard  elsewhere: 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  hear, 
To  read  what  manner  music  that  might  be: 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear; 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmony; 
Birds,  voices,  instruments?,  winds,  waters,  all  agree. 

The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade, 

Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempered  sweet; 
The  angelical  soft  trembling  voices  made 

To  the  instruments  divine  respondence  meet; 
The  silver  sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  water's  fall: 
The  water's  fall  with  difference  discreet, 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call: 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. 


NATUEE'S  HYMNS. 


J.    Ct.  ^YHITTIEK. 


[By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.] 
And  to  her  voice  the  solemn  ocean  lent, 
Touching  its  harp  of  sand,  a  deep  accompaniment. 

^^^-^HE  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 
Has  never  ceased  to  play: 
The  sono^  the  stars  of  mornino^  suno^ 
Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 
By  all  things  near  and  far; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven. 
And  miiTors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee. 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand. 
The  priesthood  of  the  sea  I 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  foi-th, 

Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 
And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 
Take  ujd  the  song  they  sing. 


231 


232 


GEMS  OF  POETKY. 


The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a  mountain  shrine; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 
She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 
Else  white  as  wings  of  prayer; 

The  altar -curtains  of  the  hills  ^ 
Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud, 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain, — 
The  thunder -organ  of  the  cloud. 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch. 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 

With  which  her  years  began. 
And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 

The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 


^Ll-JESTY  OF  GOD. 


T.  STEEXHOLL>. 


The  Lord  descended  from  above. 

And  bowed  the  heavens  most  high. 
And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 

The  darkness  of  the  sky. 

On  cherubim  and  sera^^him 

Full  royally  he  rode. 
And  on  the  wino:s  of  mio-htv  vrinds 

Came  liying  all  abroad. 

He  sat  serene  upon  the  floods. 

Their  fury  to  restrain: 
And  he.  as  sovereign  Lord  and  King, 

For  eveiTQore  shall  reign. 

Give  crlorv  to  his  awfnl  name. 

And  h'jnor  him  alone: 
Give  worship  to  his  majesty. 

Upon  his  holy  thi'one. 


233 


**N0,  NOT  MORE  WELCOME." 


TOM  MOORE. 


No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers 

Of  music  fall  on  the  sleeper's  ear, 
When,  half -awaking  from  fearful  slumbers, 

He  thinks  the  full  choir  of  heaven  is  near, — 
Than  came  that  voice,  when  all  forsaken. 

This  heart  long  had  sleeping  lain. 
Nor  thought  its  cold  pulse  would  ever  waken 

To  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 

Sweet  voice  of  comfort!  'twas  like  the  stealing 

Of  summer  wind  thro'  some  wreathed  shell; 
Each  secret  winding,  each  inmost  feeling 

Of  all  my  soul  echoed  to  its  spell! 
*Twas  whisper'd  balm — 'twas  sunshine  spoken! 

I'd  live  years  of  grief  and  pain. 
To  have  my  long  sleep  of  sorrow  broken 

By  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 


234 


BEAUTIFUL  HANDS. 


MRS.   ELLEN  H,  GATES. 


CH  beantiftil,  beantifnl  hands, 
They're  neither  white  nor  small, 
I  And  you,  I  know,  would  scarcely  think 
I      That  they  were  fair  at  all; 
'S)  I've  looked  on  hands  in  form  and  hue 
A  sculptor's  dream  might  be. 
Yet  are  these  aged,  wrinkled  hands 
Most  beautiful  to  me. 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands; 

Tho'  heart  was  weary  and  sad, 
These  patient  hands  kept  toiling  on 

That  the  childi-en  might  be  glad; 
I  often  weep,  as  looking  back, 

To  childhood's  distant  day, 
I  think  how  these  hands  rested  not 

When  mine  were  at  their  play. 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands. 

They're  grov»dng  feeble  now. 
And  time  and  toil  have  left  their  mark 

On  hand,  and  heart,  and  brow; 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

Alas,  alas !  the  nearing  time, 

The  sad,  sad  day  to  me, 
When  'neath  the  daisies,  cold  and  white, 

These  hands  will  folded  be. 

But  O  beyond  these  shadowy  lands, 

Where  all  is  bright  and  fair,  , 
I  know  full  well  these  dear  old  hands 

Will  palms  of  victory  bear; 
Where  crystal  streams  thro'  endless  years 

Flow  over  golden  sands, 
And  where  the  old  grow  young  again, 

I'll  clasp  my  mother's  hands. 


UNDER  MILTON'S  PICTURE. 


J.  DRYDEN. 


Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 
The  next  in  majesty;  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  further  go; 
To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  former  two. 


WO^LIX'S  VOICE. 


EDWIX  .4lEN0LD. 


OT  in  the  spraying  of  the  summer  trees, 

'^'Mien  evening  breezes  sing  their  vesper  hymn — 
Not  in  the  minstrel's  mighty  symphonies, 
^     Xor  ripples  breaking  on  the  river's  brim. 
^^^^.^1^  Is  earth's  best  music:  these  may  leave  awhile 
"^Ij;^      High  thoughts  in  happy  heaii;s,  and  carking 
*  cares  beguile. 

But  even  as  the  swallow's  silken  wings, 
Skimming  the  water  of  the  sleeping  lake, 

Stii'  the  still  silver  with  a  hundred  rings — 
So  doth  one  sound  the  slee^^ing  spirit  wake 

To  brave  the  danger  and  to  bear  the  harm — 

A  low  and  gentle  voice — dear  woman's  chief  est  charm. 

An  excellent  thing  it  is  I  and  ever  lent 

To  truth,  and  love,  and  meekness:  they  who  own 

This  gift  by  the  all  gracious  Giver  sent. 
Ever  by  quiet  step  and  smile  are  kno^m : 

By  kind  eyes  that  have  wept,  hearts  that  have  soiTOw'd — - 

By  patience  never  tired,  frozn  their  own  trials  boiTOw'd, 


237 


288 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


An  excellent  thing  it  is — when  first  in  gladness 

A  mother  looks  into  her  infant's  eyes — 
Smiles  to  its  smiles,  and  saddens  at  its  sadness — 

Pales  at  its  paleness,  sorrows  at  its  cries; 
Its  food  and  sleep,  and  smiles  and  little  joys — 
All  these  come  ever  blent  with  one  low,  gentle  voice. 

An  excellent  thing  it  is  when  life  is  leaving — 

Leaving  with  gloom  and  gladness,  joys  and  cares — 

The  strong  heart  failing,  and  the  high  soul  grieving 
With  strongest  thoughts,  and  wild,  unwonted  fears; 

Then,  then,  a  woman's  low,  soft  sympathy 

Comes  like  an  angel's  voice  to  teach  us  how  to  die. 

But  a  most  excellent  thing  it  is  in  youth, 

When  the  fond  lover  hears  the  loved  one's  tone. 

That  fears,  but  longs,  to  syllable  the  truth — 
How  their  two  hearts  are  one,  and  she  his  own; 

It  makes  sweet  human  music — oh!  the  spells 

That  haunt  the  trembling  tale  a  bright- eyed  maiden  tells. 


WE  SHALL  KNOW. 


ANNIE  HERBERT. 


HEN  the  mists  have  rolled  in  splendor 

From  the  beauty  of  the  hills, 
And  the  sunshine,  warm  and  tender, 

Falls  in  kisses  on  the  rills, 
We  may  read  love's  shining  letter 
In  the  rainbow  of  the  spray, — 
We  shall  know  each  other  better 
When  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 

If  we  err,  in  human  blindness, 

And  forget  that  we  are  dust; 
If  we  miss  the  law  of  kindness 
♦  When  we  struggle  to  be  just. 
Snowy  wings  of  peace  shall  cover 

All  the  plain  that  hides  away, — 
When  the  weary  watch  is  over, 

And  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 

When  the  mists  have  risen  above  us, 

As  our  Father  knows  his  own. 
Face  to  face  with  those  that  love  us, 

We  shall  know  as  we  are  known; 

239 


GEMS  OF  POETKY. 


Love,  beyond  the  orient  meadowiS 
Floats  the  golden  fringe  of  day, 

Heart  to  heart,  we  bide  the  shadows, 
Till  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 

We  shall  know  as  we  are  known, 

Nevermore  to  walk  alone, 

In  the  dawning  of  the  morning. 
When  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 


LIGHT  AFTER  DAEKNESS, 


Light  after  darkness, 

Gain  after  loss, 
Strength  after  weakness, 

Crown  after  cross, 
Sweet  after  bitter. 

Song  after  fears, 
Home  aft6r  wandering, 

Praise  after  tears. 

Sheaves  after  sowing. 

Sun  after  rain. 
Light  after  mystery, 

Peace  after  pain, 
Joy  after  sorrow, 

Calm  after  blast, 
Eest  after  weariness, 

Sweet  rest  at  last. 

Near  after  distant. 
Gleam  after  gloom, 

Love  after  loneliness. 
Life  after  tomb ; 

After  long  agony, 
Rapture  of  bliss; 

Right  was  the  pathway 
,  Leading  to  this! 

241 


THE  FREE  MIND. 


W.   L.    GAERISON.  ' 


High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 

And  iron  gates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design. 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways: 
Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control! 

No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  inclose: 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole. 

And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount;  from  vale  to  vale 

It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fireside  tale, 

Or,  in  sweet  converse,  pass  the  joyous  hours. 
'Tis  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar. 
And,  in  its  watches,  wearies  every  star! 


242 


THE  PRIDE  OF  BATTERY  B. 


OUTH  Mountain  towered  upon  our  right,  far  off 
the  river  lay; 
And  over  on  the  Avooded  hight  we  held  their 
lines  at  bay. 

At  last  the  muttering  guns  were  still;  the  day 
died  slow  and  wan. 
At  last  the  gunners'  pipes  did  till,  the  sargeant's 
yarns  began. 

When,  as  the  wind  a  moment  blew  aside  the  fragrant  flood 
Our  briar  woods  raised,   within   our  view  a  little  maiden 
stood. 


A  tiny  tot  of  six  or  seven,  from  fireside  fresh  she  seemed, 
(Of  such  a  little  one  in  heaven  one  soldier  often  dreamed.) 

And  as  we  stared  her  little  hand  went  to  her  curly  head 
In  grave  salute:  "  And  who  are  you?"  at  length  the  sargeant 
said. 

"And  where' s  your  home?"  he  growled  again.  She  lisped 
out  "Who  is  me  ? 

Why,  don't  you  know?  I'm  little  Jane,  the  Pride  of  Bat- 
tery B. 


243 


244  GEMS  or  POETRY. 

"My  home  ?    Why,  that  was  burned  away,  and  Pa  and  Ma 
are  dead, 

And  so  I  ride  the  guns  all  day  along  with  Sargeant^I^ed. 

"And  I've  a  drum  that's  not  a  toy,  a  cap  with  feathers,  too, 
And  I  march  beside  the  drummer  boy  on  Sundays  at  re- 
view. 

"But  now  our  'bacca's  all  give  out,  the  men  can't  have 
their  smoke, 

And  so  they're  cross — why,  even  Ned  won't  play  with  me 
and  joke. 

"And  the  big  colonel  said  to-day — I  hate  to  hear  him 
swear — 

He'd  give  a  leg  for  a  good  pipe  like  the  Yank  had  over 
there; 

"And  so  I  thought  when  beat  the  drum  and  the  big  guns 
were  still, 

I'd  creep  beneath  the  tent  and  come  out  here  across  the 
hill 

''And  beg,  good  mister  Yankee  man,  you'd  give  me  some 
Lone  Jack; 

Please  do — when  we  get  some  again  I'll  surely  bring  it 
back. 

"Indeed  I  will,  for  Ned — says  he — 'if  I  do  what  I  say, 
I'll  be  a  general  yet,  maybe,  and  ride  a  prancing  bay.'  " 

We  brimmed  her  tiny  apron  o'er;  you  should  have  heard 
her  laugh 

As  each  mart  from  his  scanty  store  shook  out  a  generous 
half. 


TEI]  PRIDE  OF  BATTERY  B.  245 

To  kiss  the  little  mouth  stooped  down  a  score  of  grimy 
men, 

Until  the  sargeant's  husky  voice  said  "'Tention  squad,"  and. 
then  ' 

We  gave  her  escort,  till  good- night  the  pretty  waif  we  bid 
And  watched  her  toddle  out  of  sight — or  else  'twas  tears 
that  hid 

Her  tiny  form — nor  tui'ned  about  a  man,  nor  spoke  a  word 
Till  after  awhile  a  far,  hoarse  shout  upon  the  wind  we 
heard ; 

We  sent  it  back,  and  cast  sad  eyes  on  the  scene  around; 
A  baby's  hand  had  touched  the  ties  that  brothers  once  had 
bound. 

That's  all — save  when  the  dawn  awoke  again  the  work  of 
hell, 

And  through  the  sullen  clouds  of  smoke  the  screaming 
missiles  fell, 

Our  General  often  rubbed  his  glass,  and  marveled  much  to 

see 

Not  a  single  shell  bhat  whole  day  fell  in  the  camp  of  Bat- 
tery B. 


A  LOVE  SONG. 


A.    P.  GRAVES. 

All !  swan  of  slenderness,  dove  of  tenderness, 

Jewel  of  joys,  arise! 
The  little  red  lark,  like  a  rosy  spark, 

Unto  his  sunburst  flies, 
But  till  you  are  risen,  earth  is  a  prison. 

Full  of  my  captive  sighs. 
Then  wake,  and  discover  to  your  fond  lover 

The  morn  of  your  matchless  eyes. 

The  dawn  is  dark  to  me;  hark,  oh!  hark  to  me, 

Pulse  of  my  heart,  I  pray, 
And  gently  gliding  out  of  thy  hiding,  ' 

Dazzle  me  w^ith  thy  day! 
And  oh!  I'll  fly  to  thee,  singing,  and  sigh  to  thee, 

Passion  so  sweet  and  gay, 
The  lark  shall  listen,  and  dewdrops  glisten, 

Laughing  on  every  spray. 


246 


TBI:  SOUECE  OF  HAPPI^'ESS. 


C.  WILCOX. 


"Woiilclst  thon  fi'om  sorrow  lind  a  sweet  relief  ? 

Or  is  thy  heart  oppressed  A-^^ith  woes  untold  ? 
BaliQ  woiildst  thou  gather  for  coiToding  grief  ? 

Poui'  blessins:^  round  thee  like  a  shower  of  gold. — 

'Tis  w-hen  the  rose  is  wrapped  in  many  a  fold 
Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 

Its  life  and  beauty:  not  when,  all  um\-^lled. 
Leaf  after  leaf,  its  bosom,  rich  and  fair. 
Breathes  fi'eely  its  perfimies  thi'oughout  the  ambient  air. 

Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love. 

And  thou  an  angel"  s  happiness  shalt  know. — 
Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above: 

The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  liow 

In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wuder  grow; 
The  seed  that,  in  these  few  and  fleeting  houi's. 

Thy  hands  unsparing  and  unwearied  sow. 
Shall  deck  thy  gi-ave  with  amaranthine  flowers. 
And  -yield  thee  fiTiits  diAine  in  heaven's  immonal  bowers. 


247 


THE  MYSTEEIOUS  MUSIC  OF  OCEAN. 


ONELY  and  wild  it  rose, 
That  strain  of  solemn  mu^ic  from  the  sea, 
As  though  the  bright  air  trembled  to  disclose 
An  ocean  mystery. 

Again  a  low,  sweet  tone. 
Fainting  in  murmurs  on  the  listening  day, 
Just  bade  the  excited  thought  its  presence  own. 
Then  died  away. 

Once  more  the  gush  of  sound, 
Struggling  and  swelling  from  the  heaving  plain. 
Thrilled  a  rich  peal  triumphantly  around. 
And  fled  again. 

O  boundless  deep!  we  know 
Thou  hast  strange  wonders  in  thy  gloom  concealed, 
Gems,  flashing  gems,  from  whose  unearthly  glow 

Sunlight  is  sealed. 

And  an  eternal  spring 
Showers  her  rich  colors  with  unsparing  hand, 
Where  coral  trees  their  graceful  branches  fling 

O'er  golden  sand. 


248 


THE   MYSTERIOUS   MUSIC   OF  OCEA^' 


249 


But  tell.  O  restless  main! 
^Tio  are  the  dwellers  in  tliv  world  beneath. 
That  thns  the  watery  realm  cannot  contain 

The  joy  they  breathe ? 

Emblem  of  o-lorious  mioiit! 
Are  thy  wild  children  like  thyself  aiTayed, 
Stroncr  in  immortal  and  unchecked  delio^ht, 

AVhich  cannot  fade 

Or  to  mankind  allied. 
Toiling  with  avo.  and  passion's  tiery  sting. 
Like  their  own  home,  where  storms  or  peace  preside, 

As  the  winds  bring  ? 

Alas  for  human  thought  I 
How  does  it  llee  existence,  worn  and  old. 
To  win  companionship  with  beings  Avrought 

Of  finer  mold! 

'Tis  vain  the  reckless  waves  , 
Join  with  loud  revel  the  dim  ages  flo^^ii. 
But  keep  each  secret  of  their  hidden  caves 

Dark  and  unknown. 


WahJt's  XationaJ  Gazette. 


SPEING. 


4 


p.  WILLIS. 


HE  Spring  is  here — the  dehcate-footed  May, 
With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and 
flowers; 

And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 

Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours — 
A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings, 
Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things. 

We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum. 
To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  woods ; 
And  nature,  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 
Like  a  cool  sleep  upon  the  pulses  broods. 
Yet,  even  there,  a  restless  thought  will  steal. 
To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  J~ee/. 

Strange,  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon, 
The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet. 

The  turning  to  the  light  of  leaves  in  J une. 
And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet — 

Strange — that  they  fill  not,  with  their  tranquil  tone, 

The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone. 

There's  no  contentment,  in  a  world  like  this, 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream; 


250 


SPRING. 

We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss. 

That  through  the  cloud-rifts  radiantly  stream 
Bird- like,  the  prisoned  soul  will  lift  its  eye 
And  sing — till  it  is  hooded  fi'om  the  sky. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  J.  K.  DRAKE. 
#— ■ 

F.    G.  HALLECK. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying. 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
And  long,  where  thou  art  lying. 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow. 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine. 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow. 

Whose  weal  and  wo  were  thine, — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow; 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

252 


ox  THE   DEATH  OF  J,    E.  DRAKE. 


While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


THANATOPSIS. 


W.   C.  BRYANT. 


[Thanatopsis— one  of  the  first  and  best  poems  of  the  American 
Homer— was  published  in  1817,  in  the  North  American  Review, 
and  at  once  attracted  the  merited  attention  which  has  never  abat- 
ed. This  "Hymn  of  Death"  is  as  sublime  and  beautiful  as  a 
Himalayan  peak  bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  The  follow- 
ing verses  were  prefixed  to  Thanatopsis  at  first:] 

OT  that  from  life,  and  all  its  woes, 

The  hand  of  death  shall  set  me  free; 
Not  that  this  head  shall  then  repose, 
In  the  low  vale,  most  peacefully. 

"Ah,  when  I  touch  time's  farthest  brink, 
A  kinder  solace  must  attend; 
It  chills  my  very  soul  to  think 

On  that  dread  hour  when  life  must  end. 


'*In  vain  the  flattering  verse  may  breathe 
Of  ease  from  pain,  and  rest  from  strife; 

There  is  a  sacred  dread  of  death, 
Inwoven  with  the  strings  of  life. 

"This  bitter  cup  at  first  was  given. 
When  angry  Justice  frowned  severe; 

254 


THAXATOPSIS. 


And  'tis  the  eternal  doom  of  Heaven, 

That  man  must  view  the  grave  with  fear." 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Natui^e,  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language.    For  his  gayer  houi's 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty;  and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 

And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.    "^Mien  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shi'oud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart, — 

Go  forth  unto  the  ojoen  sky.  and  list 

To  nature's  teachings,  while  fi'om  all  around — 

Eai-th  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice— Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all -beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course.    Nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

^\Tiere  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears. 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.    Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  gi'owth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  smTendering  up 

Thine  indi^ddual  being,  .shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.    The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold. 


256 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  not  to  thy  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone;  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.    Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.    The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun;  the  vales, 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty;  and  the  complaining  brooks. 
That  make  the  meadow  green;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.    The  golden  sun. 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.    Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce ; 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound. 
Save  his  own  dashings;  yet — the  dead  are  there; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep  —the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  shalt  fall 
Unnoticed  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?  All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.    The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 


THAJv-i.rOPSIS. 


His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come, 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.    As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men. 
The  youth  in  life's  green  sj^ring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
The  bowed  with  age,  the  infant,  in  the  smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off, — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who.  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that,  when  tnv  summons  comes  to  jo:i> 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night. 
Scouro-ed  to  his  dunofeon;  but.  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  di^apery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


DAVID'S  LAMENT  OVER  ABSALOM. 


N.   P.  WILLIS. 


HE  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 
Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle ;  and  their  chief, 
The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 
And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly, 
As  if  he  feared  the  slnmberer  might  stir. 
A  slow  step  startled  him.    He  grasped  his  blade 
As  if  a  trumpet  rang ;  but  the  bent  form 
Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command, 
In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers. 
And  left  him  with  his  dead.    The  king  stood  still 
Till  the  last  echo  died:  then,  throwing  off 
The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 
The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child. 
He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 
In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  wo:— 

"  Alas!  my  noble  boy!  that  thou  should' st  die! 

Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb  ? 
My  proud  boy  Absalom! 

258 


David's  laseent  over  absalom. 

Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son  I  and  I  am  chill, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee. 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

Like  a  rich  harp -string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet  ^'my  father.''^  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom! 

The  grave  hath  won  thee.    I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush. 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung;  — 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom! 

''And,  oh!  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  de23art, 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  di'ink  its  last  deep  token! 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom. 
To  see  thee,  Absalom ! 

"  And  now,  farewell!  'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up. 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee: — 

And  thy  dark  sin! — Oh!  I  could  drink  the  cup. 
If  from  this  wo  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  erring  Absalom  !*' 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child:  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer; 
And,  as  a  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

Firmly  and  decently,  and  left  him  there, 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


TO  THE  LADY  ANNE  HAMILTON. 


W.   R.  SPENCER. 


Too  late  I  stayed,  forgive  the  crime, 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours; 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  flowers! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  his  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass! 

Ah!  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  swiftness  brings, 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  to  its  wings  ? 


THE  ^YIXGED  AVOESHIPEES. 


C.  SPRAGUE. 


AY,  guiltless  pair. 

AMiat  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heav 
Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer. 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

AYhy  perch  ye  here. 
"Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep: 

Penance  is  not  for  yon. 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  n23per  deep. 

To  yon  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Or,  if  ye  stay, 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud. 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'Twere  heaven  indeed. 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  nature's  charms  to  feed. 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


THE  ISLE  OF  THE  LOXG  AGO. 


BEXJ.    F.  TAYLOR. 


[By  permission  of  S.  C-  Griggs  &  Co.] 
A  AYOXDERFUL  stream  is  the  river  Time, 

As  it  runs  tlii'ongli  the  reahn  of  tears. 
AVith  a  faultless  rhythm  aud  a  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  boundless  sweep  and  a  surge  sublime, 
As  it  blends  with  the  ocean  of  vears. 


How  the  winters  are  drifting-,  like  flakes  of  snow, 
And  the  summers  like  buds  between. 
And  the  year  in  the  sheaf.— so  they  come  and  they  go, 
On  the  river's  breast,  with  its  ebb  and  flow. 
As  it  cflides  in  the  shadow  and  sheen. 


There 's  a  magical  Isle  up  the  river  Time, 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing: 
There's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  tropical  clime. 
And  a  song  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime, 
And  the  -Junes  with  the  roses  are  stravinor 


And  the  name  of  that  Isle  is  the  Lono-  A^o, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there: 
There  are  broAvs  of  beauty  and  bosoms  of  snow  • 
There  are  heaps  of  dust — but  we  loved  them  so! 

There  are  trinkets  and  tresses  of  hair ; 


263 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

There  are  fragments  of  song  that  nobody  sings, 

And  a  part  of  an  infant's  prayer; 
There's  a  lute  imswept,  and  a  harp  without  strings; 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of  rings, 

And  the  garments  that  she  used  to  wear. 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved  when  the  fairy  shore 

By  the  Mirage  is  Hfted  in  air, 
And  we  sometimes  hear  through  the  turbulent  roar 
Sweet  voices  we  heard  in  the  days  gone  before, 

"When  the  wind  down  the  river  is  fair. 

O  remember' d  for  aye,  be  the  blessed  Isle, 

All  the  day  of  our  life  until  night; 
When  the  evening  comes  with  its  beautiful  smile, 
And  our  eyes  are  closing  to  slumber  awhile, 

May  that  "  Greenwood  "  of  soul  be  in  sight! 


THERE  COIMES  A  TIME. 


There  comes  a  time,  or  soon  or  late, 
When  exery  word  unkindly  spoken, 

Returns  with  all  the  force  of  fate. 
To  bear  reproof  from  spirits  broken, 

Who  slumber  in  that  tranquil  rest, 

^\Tiich  waking  cares  no  more  molest. 

Oh  I  were  the  wealth  of  worlds  our  own, 
We  fi^eely  would  the  treasures  yield, 

If  eyes  that  here  their  last  haye  shone, 
If  lip-  m  endless  silence  sealed. 

One  loo.x  uf  loye  o'er  us  might  cast, 

Might  breathe  forgiyeness  to  the  past. 

When  ano^er  arms  the  thoug^htless  tongue, 
To  wound  the  feelings  of  a  friend. 

Oh!  thmk  ere  yet  his  heait  be  wrung, 
In  what  remorse  thy  wrath  may  end; 

Withhold  to-day  the  words  of  hate, 

To-morrow  it  may  be  too  late. 


A  WISH. 


S.  ROGERS. 


Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A  bee -hive's  hum  shall  soothe  mine  ear; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 

With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay  built  nest; 

Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 

Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew; 

And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village -church  among  the  trees, 

Where  first  our  marriage -vows  were  given, 

With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


266 


LINES  WRITTEN  WHILE  SAILING  IN  A  BOAT 
AT  EVENING. 


W.  WOEDSWORTH. 

How  richly  glows  the  water's  breast  ^ 

Before  us,  tinged  with  evening  hues, 
While  facing  thus  the  crimson  west, 

The  boat  her  silent  course  pursues! 
And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream! 

A  little  moment  past  so  smiling! 
And  still,  perhaps,  with  faithless  gleam. 

Some  other  loiterers  beguiling. 

Such  views  the  youthful  bard  allure ; 

But, heedless  of  the  following  gloom, 
He  deems  their  colors  shall  endure 

Till  peace  go  with  him  to  the  tomb. 
And  let  him  nurse  his  fond  deceit. 

And  what  if  he  must  die  in  sorrow ! 
Who  would  not  cherish  dreams  so  sweet, 

Though  grief  and  pain  may  come  to-morrow! 


WHO  WILL  CARE. 


Who  will  care? 
When  we  lay  beneath  the  daisies, 

Underneath  the  churchyard  mold, 
And  the  lons^  p^rass  o'er  onr  faces 

Lays  its  fingers  damp  and  cold; 
When  we  sleep  from  care  and  sorrow, 

And  the  ills  of  earthly  life — 
Sleep,  to  know  no  sad  to-morrow, 

AVith  its  bitterness  of  strife — 
Who  will  care? 

Who  will  care  ? 
AVho  will  come  to  weep  above  us. 

Lying,  oh!  so  white  and  still. 
Underneath  the  skies  of  summer. 

When  all  nature's  pulses  thrill 
To  a  new  life,  glad  and  tender, 

Full  of  beauty,  rich  and  sweet. 
And  the  world  is  clad  in  splendor 

That  the  years  shall  e'er  repeat — 
Who  will  care  ? 

Who  will  care  ? 
Who  will  think  of  white  hands  lying 
On  a  still  and  silent  breast. 


WHO  WILL   CAV.E'f— SIGHT  AXD  DEATH. 


269 


Never  more  to  knoAV  of  sig'liino', 
Evermore  to  know  of  rest  ? 

Who  w-ill  care?  Xo  one  can  tell  us, 
But  if  rest  and  peace  befall, 

Will  it  matter  if  they  miss  us, 
Or  they  miss  us  not  at  all  ? 
-     Not  at  all! 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 


J.    BLANCO  WHITE. 

Mysterious  night  I  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  Divine,  and  heard  thy  name. 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 

This glorius canopy  of  light  and  blue? 

Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  th*:^  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus,  with  the  host  of  heaven,  came, 

And  lo!  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  l^eams,  O  sun!  or  w^ho  could  find, 

AMiilst  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed. 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind? 

Why  do  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anxious  st  rif e  ? 

li  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 


THE  BABY. 


No  shoes  to  hide  her  tiny  toes, 

No  stockings  on  her  feet; 
Her  supple  ankles  white  as  snow, 

Or  early  blossoms  sweet. 

Her  simple  dress  of  sprinkled  pink. 

Her  double,  dimpled  chin, 
Her  puckered  lip  and  balmy  mouth, 

With  not  one  tooth  within. 

Her  eyes  so  like  her  mother's  eyes. 

Two  gentle  liquid  things ; 
Her  face  is  like  an  angel's  face — 

We're  glad  she  has  no  wiugs. 

She  is  the  budding  of  our  love, 

A  gift  God  gave  to  us ; 
We  must  not  love  the  gift  o'er  well, 

'Twould  be  no  blessing  thus. 

— Changed  from  the  Scotch. 


270 


THE  DYING  WIFE. 


H.   M.  T. 


AY  my  babe  upon  my  bosom, 
Let  me  feel  her  sweet,  warm  breath ; 
A  strange  chill  is  passing  o'er  me, 
And  I  know  that  it  is  death. 
Let  me  gaze  once  more  on  the  treasure 
Scarcely  given,  ere  I  go; 
Feel  her  rosy,  dimpled  fingers 
Wander  o'er  my  cheeks  of  snow. 

I  am  passing  through  the  waters; 
But  the  blessed  shore  appears. 
Kneel  beside  me,  husband  dearest, 
Let  me  kiss  away  thy  tears. 
Wrestle  with  thy  grief  as  Jacob 
Strove  from  midnight  until  day; 
It  will  seem  an  angel  visit 
When  it  vanishes  away. 

Lay  my  babe  upon  my  bosom — 
'Tis  not  long  I'll  know  she's  there. 
See  how  to  my  heart  she  nestles — 
'Tis  a  pearl  I'd  love  to  wear. 

271 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

Tell  her  sometimes  of  her  mother; 
Yon  will  call  her  by  my  name. 
Shield  her  from  the  winds  of  sorrow, 
If  she  errs,  oh !  gently  blame. 

Lead  her  sometimes  where  I'm  sleeping, 
I  will  answer  when  she  calls ; 
And  my  breath  shall  stir  her  ringlets 
When  my  voice  in  whisper  falls, 
And  her  mild,  blue  eyes  will  brighten 
She  will  wonder  whence  it  came— 
In  her  heart  when  years  roll  o'er  her, 
She  will  find  her  mother's  name. 

If  in  after  years,  beside  thee 

Sits  another  in  my  chair. 

If  her  voice  is  sweeter  music, 

And  her  face  than  mine,  more  fair, 

If  a  cherub  calls  thee  "  Father," 

Fjar  more  beautiful  than  this. 

Love  your  first-born,  oh !  my  husband, 

Turn  not  from  the  motherless. 


NEW  POEM  BY  LOED  BYRON. 


N  the  dome  of  mv  sires  as  the  clear  moonbeam 
\  falls 

Through  silence   and  shade  o'er  its  desolate 
walls. 

It  shines  from  afar  like  the  glories  of  old: 
It  gilds  but  it  warms  not, — 'tis  dazzling  but 
cold, 
f 

Let  the  sunbeam  be  bright  for  the  younger  of  days ; 
'Tis  the  light  that  should  shine  on  a  race  that  decays, 
^Vhen  the  stars  are  on  high  and  the  dews  on  the  gi'ound. 
And  the  long  shadow  lingers  the  ruin  around. 

And  the  step  that  o'er- echoes  the  gray  floor  of  stone 
Falls  sullenly  now,  for  'tis  only  my  own: 
And  sunk  are  the  voices  that  sounded  in  mirth, 
And  empty  the  goblets,  and  dreary  the  hearth. 

And  vain  was  each  effort  to  raise  and  recall 
The  brightness  of  old  to  illumine  our  hall; 
And  vain  was  the  hope  to  avert  our  decline, 
And  the'^ame  of  my  fathers  has  faded  to  mine. 

And  theirs  was  the  wealth  and  the  fullness  of  fame, 
And  mine  to  inherit  too  haughty  a  name; 

18  273 


274 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  theirs  were  the  timfes  and  the  triumphs  of  yore. 
And  mine  to  regret,  but  renew  them  no  more. 

And  ruin  is  fixed  on  my  tower  and  my  wall, 
Too  hoary  to  fade  and  too  massy  to  fall; 
It  tells  not  of  time's  or  the  tempest's  decay. 
But  the  wreck  of  the  line  that  have  held  it  in  sway. 


AT  A  SOLEMN  MUSIC. 


J.  MILTOX. 


LEST  pair  of  sjTens,  pledges  of  heayen's  joy, 
Sphere-born,  harmonious  sisters.  Yoice  and  Verse. 
"Wed  Yoiu'  divine  sounds,  and  mix'd  power  em- 

Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce; 
And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present 
That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent; 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-color' d  throne 
To  Him  that  sits  thereon, 
AVith  saintly  shout,  and  solemn  jubilee: 
Where  the  bright  seraphim,  in  burning  row, 
Their  loud  uplifted  angel  trumpets  blow: 
And  the  cherubic  host,  in  thousand  quires, 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires. 
With  those  just  spirits  that  wear  yictorious  palms 
Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 
Sino-in^  everlastiuD-lv: 

That  we  on  earth,  with  undiscording  voice, 

May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise; 

As  once  we  did.  till  disproportioned  sin 

Jan-'d  against  natm'e's  chime,  and  ■with  harsh  din 

Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 

To  their  grreat  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  swav'd 


276 


GEMS  or  POETR 


In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  strod 

In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 

Oh,  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  song, 

And  keep  in  tune  with  heaven,  till  God,  ere  long, 

To  his  celestial  concert  us  unite, 

To  live  with  him,  and  slug  in  endless  morn  of  light. 


THE  SONG  OF  STEAM. 


[The  following  fine  poem,  by  Georufe  Vv\  Curter,  of  Covington,  Ky.j 

Blackwood  pronounped    the  best  lyric  of  the  century; " 


^Xft'  -^I^'^ESS  me  down  with  your  iron  bands; 


Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein : 
For  I  scorn  the  power  of  your  puny  hands, 

As  a  tempest  scorns  a  chain  I 
How  I  laugh' d  as  I  lay  conceal' d  from  sight 

For  many  a  countless  hour, 
At  the  childish  boast  of  human  might, 
And  the  pride  of  human  power! 

AVhen  I  saw  an  army  upon  the  land. 

A  naw  upon  the  seas. 
Creeping  along,  a  snail-like  band. 

Or  waiting  a  wayward  breeze ; 
^\Tien  I  marked  the  peasant  fairly  ree 

With  the  toil  which  he  faintly  bore, 
As  he  feebly  tui'ned  the  tardy  wheel, 

Or  toiled  at  the  weary  oar; 

AMien  I  measured  the  panting  courser's  speed. 

The  flight  of  the  courier-dove. 
As  they  bore  the  law  a  king  decreed. 

Or  the  lines  of  impatient  love — 
I  could  not  but  think  how  the  world  would  feel, 

As  these  were  outstripp'd  afar. 
When  I  should  be  bound  to  the  rushing  keel, 

Or  chained  to  the  flying  car! 


277 


THE  SONG  OIP  STEAM. 

Ha,  ha,  ha  !  they  found  mo  at  last; 

They  invited  me  forth  at  length, 
And  I  rushed  to  my  throne  with  a  thunder  blast, 

And  laugh'd  in  my  iron  strength! 
Oh  !  then  ye  saw  a  wondrous  change 

On  the  earth  and  ocean  wide, 
Where  now  my  fiery  armies  range, 

Nor  wait  for  wind  or  tide. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  waters  o'er, 

The  mountain's  steep  decline; 
Time — space — have  yielded  to  my  power; 

The  world — the  world  is  mine! 
The  rivers  the  sun  hath  earliest  blessed, 

Or  those  where  his  beams  decline; 
The  giant  streams  of  the  queenly  West, 

Or  the  Orient  floods  divine. 

The  ocean  pales  where'er  I  sweep, 

To  hear  my  strength  rejoice. 
And  the  monsters  of  the  briny  deep 

Cower,  trembling  at  my  voice. 
I  carry  the  wealth  and  ore  of  earth, 

The  thought  of  his  god  like  mind. 
The  wind  lags  after  my  flying  forth. 

The  lightning  is  left  behind. 

In  the  darksome  depths  of  the  fathomless  mine 

My  tireless  arm  doth  play, 
Where  the  rocks  never  saw  the  sun's  decline, 

Or  the  dawn  of  a  glorious  day, 
I  bring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up, 

From  hidden  cave  below, 
And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 

With  a  crystal  gush  o'erflow. 


THE   SONG  OF  STEAM. 


I  blow  the  bellows,  I  forge  the  steel, 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade; 
I  hammer  the  ore  and  turn  the  wheel 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made. 
I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint — 

I  carry,  I  spin,  I  weave: 
And  all  my  doings  I  put  into  print 

On  every  Saturday  eve 

I've  no  muscles  to  weary,  no  breast  to  decay, 

No  bones  to  be  "  laid  on  the  shelf," 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  "go  and  play," 

While  I  manage  the  world  myself. 
But  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein : 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands, 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain! 


MY  LITTLE  BOY  THAT  DIED. 


DINAH  MULOCH-CRAIK. 


OOK  on  his  pretty  face  for  just  one  minute, 

His  braided  frock,  his  dainty  buttoned  shoes, 
His  firm -shut  hand,  the  favorite  plaything  in  it 
And  tell  me,  mothers,  was't  not  hard  to  lose 
And  miss  him  from  my  side — 
My  little  boy  that  died  ? 

How  many  another  boy  as  dear  and  charming. 
His  father's  hope,  his  mother's  one  delight, 
Slips  through  strange  sickness,  all  fear  disarming, 
And  lives  a  long,  long  life  in  parents'  sight  I 
Mine  was  so  short  a  pride  ! 
And  then  my  poor  boy  died  ? 

I  see  him  rocking  on  his  wooden  charger  ; 

I  hear  him  pattering  through  the  house  all  day ; 
I  watch  his  great  blue  eyes  grow  large  and  larger, 
Listening  to  stories,  whether  grave  or  gay, 
Told  at  the  bright  fireside — 
So  dark  now,  since  he  died. 

But  yet  I  often  think  my  boy  is  living, 
As  living  as  my  other  children  are  ; 
When  good-night  kisses  I  all  ai  onnd  am  giving,. 
I  keep  one  for  him,  though  he  is  so  far. 
Can  a  mere  grave  divide 
Me  from  him,  though  he  died? 


280 


MY  LITTLE   BOY   THAT  DIED. 


281 


So,  while  I  come  and  plant  it  o'er  with  daisies, 

(Nothing  but  childish  daisies,  all  year  round). 
Continually  God's  hand  the  curtain  raises, 
And  I  can  hear  his  merry  yoice's  sound 
And  feel  him  at  my  side — 
My  little  boy  that  died. 

— By  the  author  of  ^^jfehn  Halifax^  GentlemanP 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 


MRS.  C.  Fo  ALEXANDER. 


Y  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
|In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 
m    There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 
And  no  man  knov^s  that  sepulchre, 
And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 
And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth: 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  back  when  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun. 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 
Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Opened  their  thousand  leaves  ; 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 


283 


So  without  sound  of  music 

Or  voice  of  tliem  that  wept, 
Silently  dovra  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle, 

On  gray  Beth-Peor"s  height, 
Out  of  his  lonely  eyry 

Looked  on  the  wondi'ous  sight  ; 
Perchance  the  lion,  stalking. 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot, 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But  when  the  warrior  dieth. 

His  comrades  in  the  war. 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  the  funeral  car , 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won. 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  mmute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

We  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place 

With  costly  marble  drest, 
In  the  great  minster  transept 

Where  lights'  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  organ  rings  and  the  sweet  choir  sings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 


284 


GE:,IS   of  rOETRY. 


This  was  the  truest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword, 
This  the  most  g'ifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden^pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had*  he  not  high  honor, — 

The  hillside  for  a  pall 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall, 
And  the  dark  rock-pine  like  tossing  plumes 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land, 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave  ? 

In  this  strange  grave  without  a  name 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again,  O  wondrous  thought, 

Before  the  Judgment- day, 
And  stand  with  glory  wrapt  around 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 

With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 

O  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land  ! 

O  dark  Beth-Peor's  hill  ! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  hidden  sleep 

Of  him  He  loved  so  well. 


THE  OLD  CANOE. 


EMILY  R.  PAGE. 


HERE  the  rocks  are  gray  and  the  shore  is  steep^ 
And  the  waters  below  look  dark  and  deep, 
AVhere  the  rugged  pine  in  its  lonely  pride 
Leans  gloomily  over  the  murky  tide; 
AMiere  the  reeds  and  rushes  are  long  and  rank, 
And  the  Aveeds  grow  thick  on  the  winding  bank; 
\Vhere  the  shadow  is  heavy  the  whole  day  through, 
There  lies  at  its  moorino"  the  old  canoe. 


The  useles-.  paddles  are  idly  di'opped. 

Like  a  sea-bird's  wings  that  the  storm  has  lopped, 

And  crossed  on  the  railing,  one  o'er  one, 

Like  folded  hands  when  the  work  is  done  ; 

While  busily  back  and  forth  between, 

Tke  spider  stretches  his  silvery  screen. 

And  the  solemn  ow],  with  his  dull  ••too-hoo," 

Settled  down  on  the  side  of  the  old  canoe. 


The  stern  half  sunk  in  the  slimy  wave, 

Eots  slowly  away  in  its  living  grave, 

And  the  green  moss  creeps  o'er  its  dull  decay. 

Hiding  its  moldering  dust  away — 

Like  the  hand  that  plants  o'er  the  tomb  a  flower, 

Or  the  ivy  that  mantles  the  falling  tower  ; 

While  many  a  blossom  of  loveliest  hue 

Springs  up  o'er  the  steri.  of  the  old  canoe. 


286 


THE  OLD  CANOF. 


The  currentless  waters  are  dead  and  still— 
Buti  the  light  wind  plays  with  the  boat  at  will, 
And  lazily  in  and  out  again, 
It  floats  the  length  of  the  rusty  chain, 
Like  the  weary  march  of  the  hands  <  »f  time, 
That  meet  and  part  at  the  noontide  chime, 
And  the  shore  is  kissed  at  each  turn  anew. 
By  the  dripping  bow  of  the  old  canoe. 

Oh,  many  a  time,  with  a  careless  hand, 
1  have  pushed  it  away  from  the  pebbly  strand, 
And  paddled  it  down  where  the  stream  runs  thick, 
Where  the  whirls  are  wild  and  the  eddies  are  thick, 
And  laughed  as  I  leaned  o'er  the  rocking  side — 
And  looked  below  in  the  broken  tide — 
To  see  that  the  faces  and  boats  were  two, 
That  were  mirrored  back  from  the  old  canoe. 

But,  now,  as  I  lean  o'er  the  crumbling  side, 

And  look  below  in  the  sluggish  tide, 

The  face  that  I  see  is  graver  grown. 

And  the  laugh  that  I  "bear  has  a  soberer  tone. 

And  the  hands  that  lent  to  the  light  skiff  wings 

Have  grown  familiar  with  sterner  things  ; 

But  I  love  to  think  of  the  hours  that  sped. 

As  I  rocked  where  the  whirls  their  white  spray  shed. 

Ere  the  blossoms  waved,  or  the  green  grass  grew 

O'er  the  moldering  stem  of  the  old  canoe. . 


A]^TONY  AXD  CLEOPATRA. 


GEX.  W.  H.  LYTLE. 


AM  dying,  Egypt,  d}dng, 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life- tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Phitonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast. 
Let  thine  ann,  O  queen,  support  me. 
Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear, 
Harken  to  the  great  heart  secrets, 
Thou,  and  thou  alone  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eao-les  hio'h  no  more. 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore: 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will. 
I  must  perish  like  a  Eoman, 

Die  the  great  triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low; 
'Twas  no  foemans  hand  that  slew  him,  « 

'Twas  his  own  that  struck  the  blow; 
Here,  then,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

287 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Ere  his  star  fades  quite  away, 
Him  who  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 
Madly  flung  a  world  away. 

Should  the  base,  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  fame  at  Rome, 
Where  the  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, 
Seek  her,  say  the  gods  have  told  me. 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings, 
That  her  blood  with  mine  commingled. 

Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings. 

And  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian! 

Glorious  Sorceress  of  the  Nile, 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile. 
Give  the  Caesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine, 
I  can  scorn  the  Senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying. 

Hark!  the  insulting  foeman's  cry, 
They  are  coming — quick,  my  falchion! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah!  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell, 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee, 

Cleopatra,  Rome,  farewell! 


FROM    THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE." 


J.  THOMSON. 


HIS  globe  ponrtray'd  the  race  of  learned  men, 
Still  at  their  books,  and  turning  o'er  the  page, 
Backwards  and  forwards;  oft  they  snatch  the 
pen. 

As  if  inspired,  and  in  a  Thespian  rage; 
Then  wite,  and  blot,  as  would  your  ruth  en- 
gage; 

Whj,  authors,  all  this  scrawl  and  scribbling  sore  ? 

To  lose  the  present,  gain  the  future  age. 

Praised  to  be  when  you  can  hear  no  more, 

And  much  em-ich'd  with  fame,  when  useless  worldly  store. 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

Their  only  labour  was  to  kill  the  time 

(And  labour  dire  it  is,  and  weary  woe;) 

They  sit,  and  loll;  turn  o'er  some  idle  rhyme: 

Then,  rising  sudden,  to  the  glass  they  go, 

Or  saunter  forth,  with  tottering  step  and  slow; 

This  soon  too  rude  an  exercise  they  find: 

Straight  on  the  couch  their  limbs  again  they  throw. 

Where  hours  and  hours  they  sighing  lie  reclined, 

And  court  the  vapoury  god,  soft  breathing  in  the  wind. 


290 


GEMS  or  POETRY. 


*il  ^  ij/  ^ 

^  ^  ^  TfT  yfr 

I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny; 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streani  at  eve. 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace. 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave : 
Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can  me  bereave. 

t 


THE  EVENING  CLOUD. 


JOHN  WILSON. 


CLOUD  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow: 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated  slow  ! 
Even  in  the  very  motion  there  was  rest; 
While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to  blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul, 
To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given; 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  io  roll 
Right  onwards  to  the  golden  gates  of  heaven, 
Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 


THY  VOICE. 


p.  B.  MAKSTON. 


HY  voice  is  like  tlie  sea's  voice,  when  it  makes 
A  melancholy  music  on  the  beach. 
Thy  voice  is  in  the  winds,  when  birds  beseech 
The  twilight  time  with  song.    The  stream  that 
takes 

Its  way  from  out  the  hill  by  flowery  brakes 
Has  in  its  tones  the  sweetness  of  thy  speech. 
At  night  when  all  is  still,  and  faint  sounds  reach' 
The  ear  of  one  who  having  slept  awakes 
Full  of  his  dreara,  thy  voice  floats  through  the  night, 
In  music  sad  as  Autumn  winds  that  blow 

'Mid  yellowing  woods  in  the  sun's  waning  light, 
Compassionate,  persistent,  clear,  and  low. 

And  when  the  world  is  fading  out  of  sight, 
Thy  voice  shall  whisper  peace  and  bid  me  go. 


2^ 


ODE  TO  EVEXIXG. 


W.  COLLINS. 


^^^-^/-^jF  AEGHT  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 


k  .  - 1  ^lav  hope,  chaste  Eve.  to  soothe  thv  modest  ear. 
Like  thy  own  solemn  springs. 


1^^:        Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales. 


<^^^^     O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright -haired 

♦  Sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 
AVitli  liraid  ethereal  wove. 
O'er  hang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  htished.  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat, 
With  short,  shiill  shi^iek  flits  on  leathern  wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path. 
Against  the  pilgi'im  borne  in  heedless  hum: 

Xow  teach  me.  maid  composed. 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 


Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit : 


294  GEMS  OF  POETRY, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 
Thy  genial,  loved  return! 

For  when  thy  folding- star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp, 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene; 
Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill,  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain. 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That  from  the  mountain's  side 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual,  dusky  vail. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air. 


ODE   TO  EVENING. 


295 


Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes,— 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule. 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 

And  love  thy  favorite  name  I 


ANNIE  AND  WILLIE'S  PRAYER 


MRS.    SOPHIA  P.  SNOW. 


WAS  the  eve  before  Christmas;  "  Good  night" 

had  been  said, 
And  Annie  and  Willie  had  crept  into  bed; 
There  were  tears  on  their  pillows,  and  tears  in 
their  eyes, 

And  each  little  bosom  was  heavy  with  sighs — 
For  to-night  their  stern  father's  command  had 
been  given 
That  they  should  retire  precisely  at  seven. 
Instead  of  at  eight,  for  they  troubled  him  more 
With  their  questions  unheard  of  than  ever  before. 
He  had  told  them  he  thought  this  delusion  a  sin, 
No  such  being  as  Santa  Claus  ever  had  been, 
And  he  hoped  after  this  he  should  never  more  hear 
How  he  scrambled  down  chimneys  with  presents  each  year; 
And  this  was  the  reason  that  two  little  heads 
So  restlessly  tossed  on  their  soft,  downy  beds. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  clock  on  the  steeple  tolled  ten. 
Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  by  either  till  then. 
When  Willie's  sad  face  from  the  blanket  did  peep 
And  whispered:  "  Dear  Annie,  is  you  fast  asleep?" 

296 


ANNIE   AND  WILLIE's  PRAYER. 

"  Why,  no.  brother  AVillie,''  a  sweet  voice  rephes, 

•'I've  tried  it  in  vain,  but  I  can't  shut  my  eyes, 

For  somehow  it  makes  me  sorry  because 

Dear  papa  has  said  there  is  no  Santa  Glaus, 

Now  we  know  that  there  is,  and  it  can't  be  denied, 

For  he  came  every  year  before  mamma  died. 

But  then  I've  been  thinking  that  she  used  to  pray, 

And  God  would  hear  everything  mamma  would  say. 

And  perhaps  she  asked  Him  to  send  Santa  Glaus  here, 

With  the  sacks  full  of  presents  he  brought  every  year." 

"  Well,  why  tant  we  pay  dest  as  mamma  did  then, 

And  ask  him  to  send  us  some  presents  aden?" 

"I've  been  thinking  so,  too,"  and  without  a  word  more 

Foui'  little  feet  bounded  out  on  the  floor. 

And  four  little  knees  the  soft  carpet  ]3ressed, 

And  two  tiny  hands  were  clasped  close  to  each  breast. 

"Now.  Willie,  you  know  we  must  firmly  believe, 

That  the  presents  we  ask  for  we're  sure  to  receive; 

You  must  wait  just  as  still  till  I  say  the  Amen, 

And  by  that  you  will  know  that  your  turn  has  come  then 

"Dear  Jesus  look  down  on  my  brother  and  me 

And  grant  us  the  favor  we're  asking  of  Thee; 

I  want  a  wax  dolly,  a  tea-set  and  ring. 

And  a  beautiful  work-box  that  shuts  with  a  spring. 

Bless  papa,  dear  J esus,  and  cause  him  to  see 

That  Santa  Glaus  loves  us  far  better  than  he; 

Don't  let  him  get  angry  and  fi'etf ul  again 

At  dear  brother  Willie  and  Annie — Amen  I" 

"Please,  Desus,  'et  Santa  Glaus  tum  down  to-night 
And  bring  us  some  presents  before  it  is  light; 
I  want  he  would  dive  me  a  nice  'ittle  sled, 
With  bright  shining  yunners  and  all  painted  yed; 


298 


GEMS  OF  POETBY. 


A  box  full  of  tandy,  a  book  and  a  toy — 
Amen — and  den,  Desus,  I'll  be  a  dood  boy." 

Their  prayers  being  ended  they  raised  up  their  heads, 
And  with  hearts  light  and  cheerful  again  sought  their  beds. 
They  were  soon  lost  in  slumber,  both  peaceful  and  deep, 
And  with  fairies  in  dream-land  were  roaming  in  sleep. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  little  French  clock  had  struck  ten. 
Ere  the  father  had  thought  of  his  children  again. 
He  seems  now  to  hear  Annie's  half -suppressed  sighs, 
And  see  the  big  tears  stand  in  Willie's  blue  eyes. 
"I  was  harsh  with  my  darlings,"  he  mentally  said, 
"And  should  not  have  sent  them  so  early  to  bed. 
But  then  I  was  troubled,  my  feelings  found  vent. 
For  bank  stock  to-day  has  gone  down  ten  per  cent. 
But,  of  course,  they've  forgotten  their  troubles  ere  this, 
And  that  I  denied  them  the  thrice -asked -for  kiss. 
But  just  to  make  sure  I'll  steal  up  to  the  door. 
For  I  never  spoke  harsh  to  my  darlings  before." 

So  saying,  he  softly  ascended  the  stairs. 

And  arrived  at  the  door  to  hear  both  of  their  prayers ; 

His  Annie's  "  Bless  papa,"  draws  forth  the  big  tears. 

And  Willie's  grave  promise  falls  sweet  on  his  ears. 

"  Strange!  Strange!  I'd  forgotten,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh, 

"  How  I  longed  when  a  child  to  have  Christmas  draw  nigh. 

"I'll  atone  for  my  harshness,"  he  inwardly  said, 

"By  answering  their  prayers  ere  I  sleep  in  my  bed;" 

Then  he  turned  to  the  stair  and  softly  went  down, 

Threw  off  velvet- slippers  and  silk  dressing  -gown. 

Donned  hat,  coat  and  boots,  and, was  out  in  the  street, 

A  millionaire  facing  the  cold,  driving  sleet. 

Nor  stopped  he  until  he  had  boiight  everything, 


ANNIE  AND  Willie's  peayer. 


From  the  box  full  o'  candy  to  the  tiny  gold  ring. 
Indeed,  he  kept  adding  so  much  to  his  store 
That  the  various  presents  outnumbered  a  score. 
Then  homeward  he  turned  with  his  hohday  load, 
And  with  Aunt  Mary's  help  in  the  nm-sery  "twas  stowed 
Miss  Dolly  was  seated  beneath  a  pine  tree. 
By  the  side  of  a  table  spread  out  for  her  tea: 
A  work-box  well  tilled  in  the  center  was  laid, 
And  on  it  the  ring  for  which  Annie  had  prayed: 
A  soldier  in  uniform  sto()d  by  a  sled. 
With  bright,  shining  runners,  and  all  painted  red. 
There  were  balls,  dogs  and  horses,  all  pleasing  to  see, 
And  birds  of  all  colors  were  perched  in  the  trees, 
"While  Santa  Claus  laughing,  stood  up  in  the  top, 
As  if  getting  ready  more  presents  to  drop. 
And  as  the  good  father  the  picture  surveyed 
He  thought  for  his  troulile  he  had  amply  been  paid. 
And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  brushed  off  a  tear: 
I'm  happier  to-night  than  I've  been  f(U'  a  year. 
I've  enjoyed  more  true  pleasure  than  ever  before; 
What  care  I  if  bank  stock  falls  ten  per  cent,  more? 
Hereafter  I"ll  make  it  a  rule.  I  believe. 
To  have  Santa  Claus  visit  us  each  Christmas  eve." 
So  thinking,  he  softlv  extinguished  the  li^'ht. 
And  tripped  down  stairs  to  retire  for  the  night. 

As  soon  as  the  beams  of  the  bright  morning  sun 
Put  the  darkness  to  flight,  and  the  stars  one  by  one, 
Four  little  blue  eyes  out  of  sleep  opened  wide, 
And  at  the  same  moment  the  presents  espied. 
Then  out  of  their  beds  they  sprang  with  a  bound. 
And  the  very  gifts  prayed  for  were  all  of  them  found. 
They  laughed  and  they  cried  in  their  innocent  glee, 


300 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  shouted  for  papa  to  come  quick  and  see 
What  presents  old  Santa  Glaus  brought  in  the  night — 
Just  the  things  that  they  wanted — and  left  before  light, 
And  now  added  Annie,  in  a  voice  soft  and  low ; 
"You'll  believe  there's  a  Santa  Glaus,  papa,  I  know"-  - 
While  dear  little  Willie  climbed  up  on  his  knee. 
Determined  no  secret  between  them  fehould  be. 
And  told  in  soft  whispers  how  Annie  had  said 
That  their  dear,  blessed  mamma,  so  long  ago  dead, 
Used  to  kneel  down  and  pray  by  the  side  of  her  chair. 
And  that  God  up  in  Heaven  had  answered  her  prayer. 
"  Then  we  dot  up  and  prayed  dest  as  well  as  we  tood, 
AndDod  answered  our  prayers — now  wasn't  He  dood?" 
"I  should  say  that  He  was  if  He  sent  you  all  these, 
And  knew  just  what  presents  my  children  would  ple  ase, 
(Well,  well,  let  him  think  so — the  dear  little  elf, 
'Twould  be  cruel  to  tell  him  I  did  it  myself.") 

Blind  father,  who  caused  your  stern  heart  to  relent, 
And  the  hasty  words  spoken  so  soon  to  repent  ? 
"Twas  the  Being  who  bade  you  steal  softly  up  stairs. 
And  made  you  His  agent  to  answer  their  prayers. 


WITH  THE  STEEAM. 


RIFTIXG  along  tlie  river,  all  gleaming 
With  sun-jewels,  that  sparkled  and  played  on 
its  breast. 

Down  thro"  the  golden-cupped  liUies.  and  di'eam- 
ing 

Of  love,  as  they  floated  on  into  the  AVest; 

On  past  the  banks,  where  the  tall  grasses,  waving 
Kist  the  cool  stream  as  they  bended  them  low; 
No  sound  to  be  heard  in  the  deep  stillness,  sa^dng 
The  water's  monotonous,  musical  flow; 

Past  where  the  swan  mid  the  sedges  was  sleeping, 
Her  head  "neath  her  feathers,  unruffled  and  white, 

And  where  thi'o'  the  brushwood  the  rabbit  was  peeping, 
As  if  make  to  sure  there  was  no  one  in  sight  ; 

Past  where  the  deep  blue  forget-me-nots  flooded 

The  space  where  they  bloomed  with  a  heavenly  glow, 
Where  daffodils  stoopt  from  the  banks  which  they 
studded. 

Eeflecting  themselves  in  the  water  below. 

Enconscious  the  two  in  tiie  boat  as  it  drifted 

Of  everything  round  them,  and  silent  was  each  ; 

For  the  youth,  as  he  gazed  in  the  sweet  eyes  uplifted, 
Discoursed  in  a  language  unfettered  by  speech! 


303 


EAIN  ON  THE  JIOOF. 

COATES  KINNEY. 


HEN  the  humid  shadows  hover  over  all  the 

starry  spheres, 
And  the  melancholy  darkness  gently  weeps  in 
rainy  tears, 

What  a  bliss  to  press  the  pillow  of  a  cottage- 
i  chamber  bed. 

And  to  listen  to  the  patter  of  the  soft  rain  overhead! 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles  has  an  echo  in  the  heart ; 
And  a  thousand  dreamy  fancies  into  busy  being  start, 
And  a  thousand  recollections  weave  their  air- threads  into  woof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  patter  of  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

Now  in  memory  comes  my  mother,  as  she  used,  in  years 
agone, 

To  regard  the  darling  dreamers  ere  she  left  them  til]  the 
dawn; 

So  I  see  her  leaning  o'er  me,  as  I  list  to  this  refrain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles  by  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Then  my  little  seraph  sister,  with  the  wings  and  wu  nng  hair. 
And  her  star- eyed  cherub  brother — a  serene  ang^rlic  pair — 


304 


EAIN  ON  THE  ROOF.  305 

Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow,  witli  tlieir  praise  or  mild 
reproof, 

As  I  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  soft  rain  on  the  roof. 

And  another  comes,  to  thrill  me  with  her  eyes'  delicious  blue; 
And  I  mind  not,  musing  on  her,  that  her  heart  was  all 
untrue  ; 

I  remember  but  to  love  her  with  a  passion  kin  to  pain. 
And  my  heart's  quick  pulses  vibrate  to  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Art  hath  naught  of  tone  or  cadence  that  can  work  with  such 
a  spell 

In  the  soul's  mysterious  fountains,  whence  the  tears  of 
rapture  well, 

As  that  melody  of  nature,  that  subdued,  subduing  strain, 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles  by  the  patter  of  the  rain. 


305 


THEEE  BE  NONE  OF  BEAUTY'S  DAUGHTERS. 


BYEON. 


There  be  none  of  beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee; 
And  Hke  music  on  the  waters 
Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me: 
When,  as  if  its  sounds  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep; 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving. 
As  an  infant's  asleep: 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion. 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 


306 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 


A.  POPE. 


Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  oh  quit  this  mortal  frame. 
Trembling,  hoping,  ling' ring,  flying, 
Oh  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying! 
Cease,  fond  natui'e,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

Hark!  they  whisper:  angels  say, 
"Sister  spirit,  come  away!" 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirit,  draws  my  breath. 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes :  it  disappears : 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes :  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring. 
Lend,  lend  your  wings!  I  mount  I  I  fly  I 
O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting? 


307 


BISHOP  KEN'S  DaXOLOGY. 


Thomas  Ken  was  born  in  England,  in  1637,  and  died  there  in ' 
1710.  His  morning  hymn,  which  ends  with  this  doxology,  was 
written  in  1697,  at  Oxford,  for  the  students  in  Winchester  Col- 
lege. Mr.  H.  Butterworth,  in  his  "  Story  of  the  Hymns,"  says 
this  unparalleled  doxology  "  is  suited  to  all  religious  occasions, 
to  all  Christian  denominations,  to  all  times,  places,  and  conditions 
of  men,  and  has  been  translated  into  all  civilized  tongues,  and 
adopted  by  the  church  universal.  Written  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years  ago,  it  has  become  the  grandest  tone  in  the  anthem 
of  earth's  voices  continually  rising  to  heaven.  As  England's 
drum-call  follows  the  sun,  so  the  tongues  that  take  up  this  grate- 
ful ascription  of  praise  are  never  silent,  but  incessantly  encircle 
the  earth  with  their  melody."  The  stanza  has  been  somewhat 
changed  by  the  hymn-tinkers,  as  the  original  reads: 

"Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow: 
Praise  Him,  all  creatures  here  below; 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  angelic  host, 
Praise  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost." 


TO  THE  OEGAN. 


c.  p.  w. 


Utterer  of  many  thoughts  which  else  were  still, 

How  oft  have  I 

Evoked  thy  harmony. 
The  voiceless  void  in  my  poor  heart  to  fill. 

Sweet  solace  of  mv  loneliness  or  grief. 
It  is  to  thee 

And  thy  grand  minstrelsy 
That  I  resort  for  pleasure  or  relief. 

Thy  diapason  tones"  deep,  distant  swell. 

Like  ocean's  roar, 

Or  songs  from  sea-shell's  core, 
Waken  fine  chords  deep  hid  in  fancy's  cell. 

Oft-times  at  even,  when  my  mind  is  fraught 

AVith  visions  high, 

Or  some  strange  fantasy. 
Thy  glowing  tones  give  utterance  to  my  thought. 

Devotion  gains  from  thee  a  wanner  tone. 

Thine  undersong 

Carries  the  soul  along, 
Until  it  seems  to  reach  the  Eternal  Thi'one. 

309 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 


BYEON. 


She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes ; 

Thus  mellow' d  to  that  tender  light 
Which  Heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair' d  the  nameless  grace, 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress. 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Wliere  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express, 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling  placa 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow. 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


310 


NEVEK  DESPAIR. 


W.   C.  RICHARDS. 


HIS  motto  I  give  to  the  young  and  the  old, 
More  precious  by  far  than  a  treasure  of  gold; 
'Twill  prove  to  its  owner  a  talisman  rare, 
More  potent  than  magic — 'tis  Never  Despair! 

No,  never  despair,  whatsoe'er  be  thy  lot, 
If  Fortune's  gay  sunshine  illumine  it  not; 
Mid  its  gloom,  and  despite  its  dark  burden  of  care, 
If  thou  canst  not  be  cheerful,  yet.  Never  Despair! 

Oh!  what  if  the  sailor  a  coward  should  be, 
"VMien  the  tempest  comes  down,  in  its  wrath  on  the  sea, 
And  the  mad  billows  leap,  like  wild  beasts  from  their  lair 
To  make  him  their  prey,  if  he  yield  to  Despair  ? 

But  see  him  amid  the  fierce  strife  of  the  waves, 
When  around  his  frail  vessel  the  storm  demon  raves ; 
How  he  rouses  his  soul  up  to  do  and  to  dare! 
And,  while  there  is  life  left,  will  Never  Despair! 

Thou,  too,  art  a  sailor,  and  Time  is  the  sea. 
And  life  the  frail  vessel  that  upholdeth  thee; 
Fierce  storms  of  misfortune  will  fall  to  thy  share, 
But,  like  the  bold  mariner,  Never  Despair! 

311 


312 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Let  not  the  wild  tempest  thy  spirit  affright, 
Shrink  not  from  the  storm,  tho'  it  come  in  its  might; 
Be  watchful,  be  ready,  for  shipwreck  prepare, 
Keep  an  eye  on  the  life-boat,  and  Never  Despair. 


TO  THE  EYEXIXG  WIND. 


W.    C.  BRYANT. 


["The  TalismaL  has  contained  some  very  beautiful  poetry, 
each  year  of  its  publication;  but  this,— we  had  almost  said  it  is  the 
sweetest  thing  in  the  language.  Not  in  any  one  of  the  Souvenirs, 
either  English  or  American,  has  there  ever  appeared  a  page  of 
such  pure,  deep,  finished  poetry.  It  has  all  the  characteristics  of 
Bryant's  style — his  chaste  elegance,  both  in  thought  and  expres- 
sion,—ornament  enough,  but  not  in  profusion  or  display, -imagery 
that  is  natural,  appropriate,  and,  in  this  instance,  peculiarly  sooth- 
ing,—select  and  melodious  language,— harmony  in  the  flow  of  the 
stanza, -gentleness  of  feeling,  and  richness  of  philosophy."  —  Geo. 
B.  Cheever's  Poets  of  America,  id.  265.  \ 

PIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 
Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow; 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  dee})  at  play, 
Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 
Rouo^henino^  their  crests,  and  scatterino^  hio^h 
their  spray. 

And  swelling  the  w^hite  sail.    I  welcome  thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea! 

Nor  I  alone— a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 


313 


314 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Livelier,  at       coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth! 

Go,  rock  the  littlewood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summonino-  from  the  innumerable  bouo^hs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast; 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,   and  darkling  waters  pass. 

And  'twixt  the  o'er-shadowing  branches  and  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed. 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change. 
That  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore. 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more; 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore; 

And,  listening  to  the  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

Ee  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


HXm'  OF  XATUEE. 


0.   B.  PEABODY. 


OD  of  the  eaitli's  extended  plains! 

The  dark  green  fields  contented  lie: 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  ^vith  the  sky 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below. 
\^Tiere  shaded  fottntains  send  theii'  streams, 

With  joyous  mtisic  in  their  flow. 


God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep  I 

.  The  waves  lie  sleej^ing  on  the  sands. 
Till  the  fierce  trtimpet  of  the  stoiin 

Have  stimmoned  up  their  thundering  bands; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas. 
Till,  calmed  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,-  Depart  in  peace. 


God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade  I 
The  gi^andeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 

That  vvTestles  singly  with  the  gale, 
Lifts  up  admuing  eyes  to  thee; 

315 


316 


GEMS  OF  rCFTPF 


But  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 

AVhen,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  tbey  form, 

To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green. 
And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air! 

Where  summer  breezed  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might, 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow; 
All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh. 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower. 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry — 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky! 

How  gloriously  above  us  springs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings! 
Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through, 

Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze. 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun. 

And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven. 

Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world !  the  hour  must  come, 
And  nature's  self  to  dust  return; 


HYMN  OF  NATURE.  WHAT  IS  NOBLE? 

Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay; 

Her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn; 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


WHAT  IS  NOBLE. 


C.  SWAIN. 

What  is  noble?  'Tis  the  finer 

Portion  of  our  Mind  and  Heart; 
Linked  to  something  still  diviner 

Than  mere  language  can  impart; 
Ever  prompting — ever  seeing 

Some  improvement  yet  to  plan; 
To  uplift  our  fellow  being, 

And,  like  man,  to  feel  for  Man! 


YOU  REMEMBER  IT— DON'T  YOU? 


THOMAS  H.  BAYLEY 


You  remember  the  time  when  I  first  sought  your  home, 
When  a  smile,  not  a  word,  was  the  summons  to  come? 
When  you  called  me  a  friend,  till  you  found  with  surprise 
That  our  frendship  turned  out  to  be  love  in  disguise. 

You  remember  it, — don't  you? 

You  will  think  of  it, — won't  you? 
Yes,  yes,  of  this  the  remembrance  will  last, 
L"  ng  after  the  present  fades  into  the  past. 

You  remember  the  grief  that  grew  lighter  when  shared? 
With  the  bliss  you  remember,  could  aught  be  compared? 
You  remember  how  fond  was  my  earliest  vow  ? 
Not  fonder  than  that  v/hich  I  breathe  to  thee  now. 

You  remember  it, — don't  you  ? 

You  will  think  of  it, — won't  you? 
Yes,  yes,  of  all  this  the  remembrance  will  last, 
Long  after  the  present  fades  into  the  past. 


318 


REVENGE  OF  INJURIES. 

LADY  ELIZABETH  CAEEW. 


HE  fairest  action  of  onr  human  lif*^ 
Is  scorning  to  revenge  an  injury; 
For  who  forgives  without  a  further  strife, 

His  adversary's  heart  to  him  doth  tie; 
And  'tis  a  firmer  conquest  trulj'  said, 
To  win  the  heart,  than  overthrow  the  head. 

If  we  a  worthy  enemy  do  find, 

To  yield  to  worth  it  must  be  nobly  done; 

But,  if  of  baser  metal  be  his  mind. 

In  base  revenge  there  is  no  honor  won. 

Who  w^ould  a  worthy  courage  overthrow  ? 

And  who  would  wrestle  with  a  worthless  foe  ? 

We  say  our  hearts  are  great,  andean  not  yield; 

Because  they  can  not  yield,  it  proves  them  poor : 
Great  hearts  are  tasked  beyond  their  power,  but  seld; 

The  weakest  lion  will  the  loudest  roar; 
Truth's  school  for  certain  did  this  same  allow ; 
High-heartedness  doth  sometimes  teach  to  bow. 

A  noble  heart  doth  teach  a  virtuous  scorn: — 
To  scorn  to  owe  a  duty  over  long; 


319 


320  GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

To  scorn  to  be  for  benefits  forborne; 

To  scorn  to  lie;  to  scorn  to  do  a  wrong; 
To  scorn  to  bear  an  injury  in  mind; 
To  scorn  a  free-born  heart  slave-like  to  bind. 

But  if  for  wrongs  we  needs  revenge  must  have, 
Then  be  our  vengeance  of  the  noblest  kind. 

Do  we  his  body  from  our  fury  save, 

And  let  our  hate  prevail  against  his  mind  ? 

What  can  'gainst  him  a  greater  vengeance  be, 

Than  make  his  foe  more  worthy  far  than  he  ? 


THE  OLD  COTTAGE  CLOCK. 


H  !  tlie  old  clock  of  the  household  stock 

"Was  the  brightest  thing  and  the  neatest; 
Its  hands,  though  old,  had  a  touch  of  gold, 
J     And  its  chime  rang  still  the  sweetest. 
'T  was  a  monitor,  too,  though  its  words  were  few, 

Yet  they  lived  through  nations  altered  ; 
And  its  voice,  still  strong,  warned  old  and  young 
"When  the  voice  of  friendship  faltered  ; 
''Tick,  tick,"  it  said — "quick,  quick  to  bed — 

For  nine  I've  given  warning  ; 
ITp,  up  and  go,  or  else  you  know. 

You'll  never  rise  soon  in  the  morning." 

A  fi'iendly  voice  was  that  old,  old  clock, 

As  it  stood  in  the  corner  smiling, 
And  blessed  the  time,  with  a  merry  chime, 

The  Wintry  hours  beguiling  ; 
But  a  cross  old  voice  was  that  tiresome  clock, 

As  it  called  at  daybreak  boldly, 
When  the  dawn  looked  gray  on  the  misty  way, 

And  the  early  air  blew  coldly  ; 
"  Tick,  tick,"  it  said — "quick,  out  of  bed — 

For  five  I've  given  warning  ; 
Y^ou'll  never  have  health,  you'll  never  get  wealth, 

Unless  you're  up  soon  in  the  morning." 


321 


322 


THE   OLD  COTTAGE  CLOCK. 


Still  hourly  the  sound  goes  round  and  round, 

With  a  tone  that  ceases  never  ; 
While  tears  are  shed  for  the  bright  days  fled, 

And  the  old  friends  lost  forever  ; 
Its  heart  beats  on,  though  hearts  are  gone 

That  warmer  beat  and  younger  ; 
Its  hands  still  move,  though  hands  we  love 

Are  clasped  on  earth  no  longer  ! 
"  Tick,  tick,"  it  said — "to  the  churchyard  bed — 

The  grave  hath  given  warning — 
Up,  up  and  rise,  and  look  to  the  skies, 

And  prepare  for  a  heavenly  morning." 

—  Christian  Intelligences 


A  LITTLE  T\'OED. 


A  little  word  in  kindness  spoken, 

A  motion  or  a  tear, 
Has  often  healed  the  heaii:  that's  broken! 

And  made  a  Mend  sincere. 

A  word — a  look — has  crashed  to  eaith, 

Full  many  a  budding  flower. 
Which  had  a  smile  but  owned  its  birth. 

Would  bless  life's  darkest  houi\ 

Then  deem  it  not  an  idle  thing. 

A  pleasant  word  to  speak; 
The  face  you  wear,  the  thoughts  vou  bring. 

A  heaii  may  heal  or  break. 


I  SAW  THEE  WEEP. 


GEOEGE  G.  BYKON. 


I  saw  thee  weep — the  big  bright  tear 

Came  o'er  that  eye  of  blue: 
And  then  methought  it  did  appear 

A  violet  dropping  dew: 
I  saw  thee  smile — the  sapphire's  blaze 

Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine; 
It  conld  not  match  the  living  rays 

That  fill'd  that  glance  of  thine.  ^ 

As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 

A  deep  and  mellow  dye, 
"Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 

Can  banish  from  the  sky, 
Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 

Their  own  pure  joy  impart; 
'Their  sunshine  leaves  a  glow  behind, 

That  lightens  o'er  the  heart. 


NAPOLEON  AT  BEST. 


J.  PIERPONT. 


IS  falchion  flashed  along  the  Nile, 

His  host  he  led  through  Alpine  snows; 
O'er  Moscow's  towers,  that  blazed  the  while, 
His  eagle-flag  nnrolled-and  froze! 


Here  sleeps  he  now,  alone! — not  one, 
Of  all  the  kings  whose  crowns  he  gave, 
Bends  o'er  his  dnst;  nor  wife  nor  son 
Has  ever  seen  or  sought  his  grave. 

Behind  the  sea-girt  rock,  the  star 

That  led  him  on  from  crown  to  crown 

Has  sunk,  and  nations  from  afar 
Gazed  as  it  faded  and  went  down. 


High  is  his  tomb:  the  ocean  flood. 
Far,  far  below,  by  storms  is  curled — 

As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood, 
A  stormy  and  unstable  world. 

Alone  he  sleeps:  the  mountain  cloud. 

That  night  hangs  round  him,  and  the  breath 


325 


GEMS  OF  POETRY, 


Of  morning  scatters,  is  the  shroud 

That  wraps  the  conqueror's  clay  in  death. 

Pause  here !   The  far  off  world  at  last 

Breathes  free;  the  hand  that  shook  its  thrones, 

And  to  the  earth  its  miters  cast, 

Lies  powerless  now  beneath  these  stones. 

Hark!  Comes  there  from  the  pyramids, 
And  from  Siberian  wastes  of  snow. 

And  Europe's  hills,  a  voice  that  bids 

The  world  be  awed  to  mourn  him? — No! 

The  only,  the  perpetual  dirge. 

That's  heard  here  is  the  sea-bird's  cry — 
The  mournful  murmur  of  the  surge, 

The  clouds'  deep  voice,  the  wind's  low  sigh. 


AND  THOr  AET  DEAD. 


GEORGE  GCRDOX  (LORD)  BYROX. 


f  fXD  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair. 
As  aught  of  mortal  binh: 
And  form  so  soft,  and  cliaims  so  rare. 

Too  soon  retuim'd  to  Earth! 
Though  Eaith  received  them  in  her  bet 
And  o"er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 
In  carelessness  or  mirth. 
There  is  an  eye  which  cotild  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low. 

Xor  gaze  upon  the  spot: 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  gi'ow, 

So  I  behold  them  not: 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  ean  rot : 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell. 
'Tis  nothing  that  I  loved  so  well 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 

As  feiwently  as  thou_. 
"SVho  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine; 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers,, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away, 
I  might  have  watch' d  through  long  decay., 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away: 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf^ 

Than  see  it  pluck' d  to  day; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  but  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fain, 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne  , 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade; 
The  night  that  follow' d  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade : 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  pass'd, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last: 

Extinguish' d,  not  decay'dj 


AXD  THOU  ART  DEAD. 


As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brio;htest  as  thev  fall  from  hio^h. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 
My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly!  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  di'ooping  head ; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Xor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee ! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  di^ead  Eternity 

Eeturns  again  to  me,' 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  lining  years. 


ADVICE  TO  A  YOUNG  MAN. 


BEN  JONSON. 


What  would  I  have  you  do?  I'll  tell  you,  kinsman; 
Learn  to  be  wise,  and  practice  how  to  thrive; 
That  would  I  have  you  do;  and  not  to  spend 
Your  coin  on  every  bauble  that  you  fancy, 
Or  every  foolish  brain  that  humors  you. 

I'd  have  you  sober,  and  contain  yourself; 

Not  that  your  sail  be  bigger  than  your  boat; 

But  moderate  your  expenses  now,  (at  first,) 

As  you  may  keep  the  same  proportion  still. 

Nor  stand  so  much  on  your  gentility, 

Which  is  an  airy,  and  mere  borrowed  thing. 

From  dead  men's  dust  and  bones;  and  none  of  yours, 

Except  you  make  or  hold  it. 


330 


SATUKDAY  AFTEKXOOX. 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


LO^  E  to  look  on  a  scene  like  tliis, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  jDersuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old. 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray. 
^   For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 
And  it  makes  his  pulses  fly. 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice. 
And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 


I  have  walked  the  world  for  four  score  years: 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 
And  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death. 

And  my  years  are  well  nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true;  it  is  very  true; 

Tm  old.  and  "I  'bide  my  time:'' 
But  my  heart  Avill  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on.  play  on:  I  am  with  you  there. 

In  the  midst  of  your  meiTy  ring: 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swingr. 


331 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 
And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call, 

And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 
And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go ; 
For  the  world,  at  best,  is  a  weary  place. 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low: 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


THE  ALPIXE  ELOWEES. 


MRS.   L.    H.  SIGOUEXEY. 


This  piece  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  of  Mrs.  Sigourney's  poetry. 
It  is  in  some  respects  so  subhme,  that  it  forcibly  reminds  us  of 
Coleridge's  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Yale  of  Chamouny."— 
George  B.  Cheever's  Poets  of  America,  p.  309.] 

EEK  dwellers  mid  yon  teiTor- stricken  cliffs! 
With  brows  so  pure,  and  incense-breathing  lips. 
Whence  are  ye? — Did  some  white-winged  mes- 
senger 

('^       .        On  Mercy's  missions  trust  your  timid  germ 
p^^d     To  the  cold  cradle  of  eternal  snows  ? 

^        ^    Or,  breathing  on  the  callous  icicles, 
t         Bid  them  with  tear-drops  nurse  ye  ? — 

— Tree  nor  shrub 
Dare  that  di-ear  atmosphere;  no  polar  pine 
Uprears  a  veteran  front;  yet  there  jk^  stand, 
Leaning  your  cheeks  against  the  thick- ribbed  ice, 
And  looking  up  with  brilliant  eyes  to  Him 
AYho  bids  you  bloom  unblanched  amid  the  waste 
Of  desolation.    Man,  who,  panting,  toils 
O'er  slippery  steeps,  or  trembling,  treads  the  yerge 
Of  yawning  gulfs,  o'er  which  the  headlong  plunge 
Is  to  eternity,  looks  shuddering  up, 
And  marks  ye  in  your  placid  loveliness — 

333 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Fearless,  yet  frail — and,  clasping  his  chill  hands, 
Blesses  your  pencilled  beauty.    'Mid  the  pomp 
Of  mountain  summits  rushing  on  the  sky. 
And  chaining  the  rapt  soul  in  breathless  awe, 
He  bows  to  bind  you  drooping  to  his  breast. 
Inhales  your  spirit  from  the  frost-\vinged  gale, 
And  freer  dreams  of  heaven. 


EYEXIXG-. 


LORD  BYP.ON. 


It  is  the  hour  when  fi'om  the  boughs 
The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard; 

It  is  the  houi'  when  lovers''  tows 

Seem  sweet  in  eveiw  whisper" d  word; 

And  o-entle  winds,  and  waters  near. 

!Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 

Each  llower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet. 

And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met. 

And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue. 

And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue, 

And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 

So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pui-e. 

^liich  follows  the  decline  of  day. 

As  tAvihght  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 


335 


BEOWN  LARK  AND  BLACKBIRD. 


O  brown  lark,  loving  cloud-land  best, 

And  snn-smit  seas  of  sky. 
Thee  doth  a  musical  unrest 
Drive  to  rise  upward  from  thy  nest 
Far  fathoms  high. 


O  fluid-fluting  blackbird,  keep 

The  midnight  of  thy  wing 
Close  to  my  home,  where  leaves  grow  deep, 
Since  where  two  lovers  lie  asleep, 
Thou  lov'st  to  sing. 


336 


338 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 


E.  H.  SEAES. 


ALM  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 
Come  heaven's  melodious  strains, 
Where  wild  Judea  stretches  far 
Her  silver-mantled  plains. 

Celestial  choirs  from  courts  above 

Shed  sacred  glories  there; 
And  angels, with  their  sparkling  lyres, 

Make  music  on  the  air. 

The  answering  hills  of  Palestine 

Send  back  a  glad  reply, 
And  greet  from  all  their  holy  hights 

The  Dayspring  from  on  high. 

O^er  the  blue  depths  of  Galilee 
There  comes  a  holier  cahn; 

And  Sharon  waves  in  solemn  praise 
Her  silent  groves  of  palm. 

"Glory  to  God!  "  the  sounding  skies 
Loud  with  their  anthems  ring; 

339 


GEMS  OF  POETEY. 

"  Peace  on  the  earth — good -will  to  men 
From  Heaven's  Eternal  King." 

Light  on  thy  hills,  Jerusalem! 

The  Savior  now  is  born! 
More  bright  on  Bethlehem's  joyous  plains 

Breaks  the  first  Christmas' morn ; 

And  brighter  on  Moriah's  brow, 
Crowned  with  her  temple  spires, 

Which  first  proclaim  the  newborn  light, 
Clothed  with  its  orient  fires. 

This  day  shall  Christian  tongues  be  mute, 
And  Christian  hearts  be  cold  ? 

O  catch  the  anthem  that  from  heaven 
O'er  Judah's  mountains  rolled! 

When  nightly  burst  from  seraph  harps 

The  high  and  solemn  lay, — 
"Glory  to  God  ;  on  earth  be  peace; 

SalvatioE  comes  to-day!  " 


GOXE  BEFORE. 


The  dimpled  hand  and  ringlet  of  gold, 

Lie  low  in  a  marble  sleep; 
I  stretch  my  hand  for  a  clasp  of  old; 
But  the  empty  air  is  strangely  cold. 

And  my  vigil  alone  I  keep. 


There's  a  sinless  brow  with  a  radiant  cro^vn, 

And  a  cross  laid  down  in  the  dust ; 
There's  a  smile  where  never  a  shade  comes  now, 
And  tears  no  more  from  those  dear  eyes  flow, 
So  sweet  in  their  innocent  trust. 

Ah,  well  I  and  summer  is  come  again, 

Sino-ino:  her  same  old  sono-s: 
But  ob  1  it  sounds  like  a  sob  of  pain 
As  it  floats  in  sunshine  and  in  rain. 

O'er  the  hearts  of  the  world's  great  throngs. 

There's  a  beautiful  region  above  the  skies, 
And  I  long  to  reach  its  shore. 

341 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


For  I  know  I  shall  find  my  treasure  there, 
The  laughing  eyes  and  the  amber  hair 
Of  the  loved  one  gone  before. 


A  FAEEWELL.  - 


C.  KINGSLEY. 


My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you, 

No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  grey, 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 
For  every  day. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  for  ever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 


SEEENADE. 


EDWARD    COATE  PIXKXEY. 


OOK  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies. 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 
Of  blending  shades  and  light; 
Then,  lady,  up, — look  out.  and  be 
A  sister  to  the  night! — 

Sleep  not  !  thine  image  wakes  for  aye 

Within  my  watching  breast : 
Sleep  not  ! — from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly, 

"WTio  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 
Nay,  lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  this  darkness  gay 
With  looks,  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  day. 


34;? 


WYOMING.  ' 


F.  G.  HALLECK. 


KOU  com  'st  in  beauty,  on  my  gaze  at  last, 
"On  Susquehannah's  side,  fair  Wyoming!" 
Image  of  many  a  dream,  in  hours  long  past, 
When  life  was  in  its  bud  and  blossoming, 
And  waters,  gushing  from  the  fountain  spring 
Of  pure  enthusiast  thought,  dimmed  my  young 
eyes, 

t         As  by  the  poet  borne,  on  unseen  wing, 
I  breathed,  in  fancy,  'neath  thy  cloudless  skies, 
The  Summer's  air,  and  heard  her  echoed  harmonies. 

I  then  but  dreamed:  thou  art  before  me  now, 
In  life,  a  vision  of  the  brain  no  more. 
I've  stood  upon  the  wooded  mountain's  brow. 
That  beetles  high  thy  lovely  valley  o'er; 
And  now,  where  winds  thy  river's  greenest  shore. 
Within  a  bower  of  sycamores  am  laid; 
And  winds,  as  soft  and  sweet  as  ever  bore 
The  fragrance  of  wild  flowers  through  sun  and  shade. 
Are  singing  in  the  trees,  whose  low  boughs  press  my  head. 

Nature  hath  made  thee  lovelier  than  the  power 
Even  of  Campbell's  pen  hath  pictured:  he 


344 


WYOMING. 


34^ 


Had  woven,  had  he  gazed  one  sunny  houi' 
Upon  thy  smihng  vale,  its  scenery 
With  more  of  trath,  and  made  each  rock  and  tree 
Known  Hke  old  friends,  and  greeted  from  afar: 
And  there  are  tales  of  sad  reality. 
In  the  dark  legends  of  thy  border  war. 
With  woes  of  deeper  tint  than  his  own  Gertrude's  are. 

But  where  are  they,  the  beings  of  the  mind. 
The  bard's  creations,  molded  not  of  clay, 
Hearts  to  strange  bliss  and  suffering  assigned — 
Young  Gertrude,  Albert,  "Waldegi'aye — where  are  they  ? 
We  need  not  ask.    The  people  of  to-day 
Appear  good,  honest,  quiet  men  enough, 
And  hospitable  too — for  ready  pay, — 
"With  manners,  like  their  roads,  a  little  rough. 
And  hands  whose  grasp  is  warm  and  welcoming,  tho'  tough. 

Judge  Hallenbach,  who  keeps  the  toll-bridge  gate, 
And  the  town  records,  is  the  Albert  now 
Of  Wyoming:  like  him,  in  church  and  state. 
Her  Doric  column ;  and  upon  his  brow 
The  thin  hairs,  white  with  seventy  winters'  snow-, 
Look  patriarchal.    Waldegi-ave  'twere  in  vain 
To  point  out  here,  unless  in  yon  scare- crow. 
That  stands  full -uniformed  upon  the  plain. 
To  frighten  flocks  of  crows  and  blackbirds  from  the  grain. 

For  he  would  look  particularly  droll 
In  his    Iberian  boot*'  and  '"Spanish  plume,*' 
And  be  the  wonder  of  each  Chi'istian  soul, 
As  of  the  birds  that  scare-crow  and  his  broom. 
But  Gertrude,  in  her  loveliness  and  bloom, 
Hath  many  a  model  here,  for  woman's  eye, 


346 


GEMS   OF   POETRY . 


In  court  or  cottage,  wheresoe'er  her  home, 
Hath  a  heart- spell  too  holy  and  too  high 
To  be  o'er- praised  even  by  her  worshiper — Poesy. 

There's  one  in  the  next  field — of  sweet  sixteen — 
Singing  and  summoning  thoughts  of  beauty  born 
In  heaven — with  her  jacket  of  light  green, 
"Love-darting  eyes,  and  tresses  like  the  morn," 
Without  a  shoe  or  stocking, — hoeing  corn. 
Whether,  like  Gertrude,  she  oft  wanders  there, 
With  Shakspeare's  volume  in  her  bosom  borne, 
I  think  is  doubtful.    Of  the  poet-player 
The  maiden  knows  no  more  than  Cobbett  or  Voltaire. 

There  is  a  woman,  widowed,  gray,  and  old. 
Who  tells  you  where  the  foot  of  Battle  stepped 
Upon  their  day  of  massacre.    She  told 
Its  tale,  and  pointed  to  the  spot,  and  wept. 
Whereon  her  father  and  five  brothers  slept 
Shrouldless,  the  bright- dreamed  slunibers  of  the  bra^e, 
When  all  the  land  a  funeral  mourning  kept. 
And  there,  wild  laurels,  planted  on  the  grave, 
By  Nature's  hand,  in  air  their  pale  red  blossoms  wave. 

And  on  the  margin  of  yon  orchard  hill 
Are  marks  where  time-worn  battlements  have  been; 
And  in  the  tall  grass  traces  linger  still 
Of  "  arrowy  frieze  and  wedged  ravelin." 
Five  hundred  of  her  brave  that  Valley  green 
Trod  on  the  morn  in  soldier-spirit  gay; 
But  twenty  lived  to  tell  the  noon- day  scene — 
And  where  are  now  the  twenty  ?    Pass'd  away. 
Has  Death  no  triumph-hours,  save  on  the  battle  day  ? 


DEAmS  FIEST  DAT. 


[The  foilo^mg  beautiful  descriptive  lines  are  the  best  in  Byron's 
Giaour  {■Jour,  an  infidel: — applied  by  the  Turks  to  disbelievers  in 
Mohammedanism. — Webster. )  His  note  annexed  to  the  succed- 
ing  passages  gives  an  accurate  idea  of  Byron's  prose  style; 
"I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  opportunity  ol 
vritnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  description;  but  those  vrhc 
have  will  probably  retain  a  painful  remembrance  of  that  singular 
beauty  which  pervades,  with  few  exceptions,  the  featiires  of  the 
dead,  a  few  houi^  and  but  for  a  few  hours,  after  ''the  spirit  is  not 
there.'  It  is  to  be  remarked  in  cases  of  violent  death  by  gun-shot 
wounds,  the  expression  is  always  that  of  langour,  whatever  the 
natural  energy  of  the  suJ^erer's  character;  but  in  death  from  a 
stab_.  the  countenance  preserves  its  traits  of  feehng  or  ferocity, 
and  the  mind  its  bias,  to  the  last."] 

E  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 
Ere  the  lir^st  day  of  death  is  fied. 
The  lii'st  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress. 
(Before  Decay's  effacing  nngers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers ). 
And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  aii\. 
The  rajDtiire  of  repose  that's  there. 
The  fix'd  yet  tender  traits  that  sti'eak 
The  langom^  of  the  placid  cheek. 
And— but  for  that  sad  shi'ouded  eye. 
That  &es  not.  wins  not.  weeps  not  now. 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 


348 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Where  cold  Obstructions' s  apathy 

Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon; 

Yes,  but  for  tHese  and  these  alone, 

Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power; 

So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd, 

The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd! 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore ; 

'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath; 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 

Expression's  last  receding  ray, 

A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay. 

The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  passed  away! 

Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 

Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth! 


350 


THE  OLD  FAEM  GATE. 


E.  J.  HALL. 


f  HE  old  farm  gate  hangs,  sagging  down, 
On  rusty  hinges,  b?nt  and  brown; 
Its  latch  is  gone,  and,  here  and  there 
It  shows  rude  traces  of  repair. 


That  old  farm  gate  has  seen,  each  year, 
The  blossoms  bloom  and  disappear; 
The  bright  green  leaves  of  S2:)ring  unfold, 
Anc  tui'n  to  Autumn's  red  and  sold. 


The  children  haA'e  upon  it  clung, 
And,  in  and  out,  with  rapture  s^^'ung, 
When  their  young  hearts  were  good  and  pure- 
^lien  hope  was  fair  and  faith  was  sure. 

Beside  that  gate,  have  lovers  true 

Told  the  old  story,  always  new; 

Have  made  their  vows,  have  dreamed  of  bliss, 

And  sealed  each  promise  with  a  kiss. 

The  old  farm  gate  has  opened  wide 
To  welcome  home  the  new-made  bride, 
Wlien  lilacs  bloomed,  and  locusts  fair 
With  their  sweet  fragrance  filled  the  air. 

351 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


That  gate,  with  rusty  weight  and  chaiitj 
Has  closed  upon  the  solemn  train 
That  bore  her  lifeless  form  away, 
Upon  a  dreary  Autumn  day. 

The  lichens  gray  and  mosses  green 
Upon  its  rotting  posts  are  seen; 
Initials,  carved  with  youthful  skill, 
Long  years  ago,  are  on  it  still. 

Yet  dear  to  me  above  all  things. 
By  reason  of  the  thoughts  it  brings, 
Is  that  old  gate,  now  sagging  down, 
On  rusty  hinges,  bent  and  brown. 


SOXG  OF  THE  PIONEERS. 


W.     D.  GALLAGHER, 


SOXG  for  the  early  times  out  west, 

And  our  green  old  forest  home. 
AVhose  pleasant  memories  freshly  yet 

Across  the  bosom  come: 
A  song  for  the  free  and  gladsome  life 

In  those  early  days  we  led. 
AVith  a  teeming  soil  beneath  our  feet, 
And  a  smiling  heaven  o'erhead! 
O  the  waves  of  life  danced  menily, 

And  had  a  joyous  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 
Fifty  yzaes  ago! 

The  hunt,  the  shot,  the  glorious  chase. 

The  captured  elk  or  deer: 
The  camp,  the  big,  bright  fire,  and  then 

The  rich  and  wholesome  cheer: 
The  sweet,  sound  sleep,  at  dead  of  night, 

By  oui'  camp-fire  blazing  high  — 
Unbroken  by  the  wolfs  long  howl, 

And  the  panther  springing  by. 
O  meiTily  passed  the  time,  despite 


353 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Our  wily  Indian  foe, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers. 
Fifty  years  ago! 

We  shunned  not  labor;  when  'twas  due^, 

We  wrought  with  right  good  will ; 
And,  for  the  home  we  won  for  them, 

Our  children  bless  us  still. 
We  lived  not  hermit  lives,  but  oft 

In  social  converse  met; 
And  fires  of  love  were  kindled  then,, 

That  burn  on  warmly  yet. 
O  pleasantly  the  stream  of  life 

Pursued  its  constant  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 

We  felt  that  we  were  fellow-men; 

AVe  felt  we  were  a  band 
Sustained  here  in  the  wilderness 

By  heaven's  upholding  hand. 
And,  when  the  solemn  Sabbath  came. 

We  gathered  in  the  wood, 
And  lifted  up  our  hearts  in  prayer 

To  God,  the  only  Good. 
Our  temples  then  were  earth  and  sky; 

None  others  did  we  know 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 

Our  forest  life  was  rough  and  rude, 
And  dangers  closed  us  round, 

But  here,  amid  the  green  old  trees, 
Freedom  we  sought  and  found. 


SONG  OF  THE  PIONEERS. 


Oft  tlirough  our  dwellings  wintiy  blasts 

AVould  rush  with  shriek  and  moan: 
We  cared  not — though  they  were  but  frail, 

We  felt  they  were  our  own ! 
O  free  and  manly  lives  we  led, 

Mid  verdui'e  or  mid  snow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 

But  now  our  course  of  life  is  short; 

And  as,  from  day  to  day, 
We're  walking  on  with  halting  step, 

And  fainting  by  the  way. 
Another  land,  more  bright  than  this. 

To  our  dim  sight  appears, 
And  on  our  way  to  it  we'll  soon 

Again  be  pioneers ! 
Yet  while  we  linger,  we  may  all 

A  backward  glance  still  throw 
To  the  days  when  we  were  pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 


BYRON'S  FINEST  IMAGE. 


[The  following  lines,  from  Lord  Byron's  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers,  refer  to  Henry  Kirke  White,  a  too  ardent 
student,  born  at  Nottingham,  England,  March  21,  1785,  and  died 
at  Cambridge,  England,  Oct.  19,  1806.  Byron  says  of  H.  K. 
White :  "  His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must  impress  the 
reader  with  the  liveliest  regret  that  so  short  a  period  was  allotted 
to  talents  which  would  have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions  he 
was  destined  to  assume."] 

Unhappy  White!  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  its  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  came;  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  there. 
Oh!  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science  'self  destroy'd  her  favorite  son! 
Yes,  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 
She  sow'dthe  seeds,  but  death  has  reap'd  the  fruit. 
'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  fatal  blow. 
And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low: 
So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch' d  upon  the  plain. 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again. 
Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart. 
And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quiver' d  in  his  heart; 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel, 
He  nurs'd  the  pinion  which  impelled  the  steel; 
While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest, 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 


356 


KIXDEED  HEARTS, 


3IPlS.  HZZVIAXS. 

a?k  not.  hope  thou  not  too  much 
Of  sympathy  below: 
Few  are  the  heaj'ts  whence  one  same  tonch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  flow : 
Few — and  by  still  conflicting  powers 
^  Forbidden  here  to  meet — 

Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 
Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine_.  which  tui'ns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky, 

"VThere  the  rich  sunset  bui-ns : 
It  may  be  that  the  ]3reath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone. 
A  raptui'e  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring — 

A  di'eam.  to  his  unkno^vn. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times — 

A  soiTOwful  delight  I 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes. 

The  sound  of  waves  hj  night: 
The  wind  that,  with  so  manv  a  tone. 


358 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Some  chord  within  can  thrill, — 
These  may  have  language  all  thine  own, 
To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou,  not  for  this,  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years; 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew, 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears ! 
If  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part, 
And  watch'd  through  sickness  by  thy  bed, — 

Call  his  a  kindred  heart ! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made. 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend, 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade, 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend, 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied, 

Never  to  mortals  given, — 
Oh!  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lift  them  unto  heaven ! 


THE  AVATEE  LILY. 


FELICIA  D.  B.  HEMANS. 


H!  beautiful  thou  art, 
Thou  sculpture-hke  and  stately  Eiver-Queen! 
Crowning  the  depths,  as  with  the  light  serene 
Of  a  pure  heart. 

Bright  lily  of  the  wave  I 
Rising  in  fearless  grace  with  every  swell, 
Thou  seem'st  as  if  a  spirit  meekly  brave 
Dwelt  in  thy  cell : 

Lifting  alike  thy  head 
Of  placid  beauty,  feminine  yet  free, 
"Whether  with  foam  or  jDictured  azure  spread 

The  waters  be. 

"What  is  like  thee,  fair  flower, 
The  gentle  and  the  firm?  thus  bearing  up 
To  the  blue  sky  that  alabaster  cup. 

As  to  the  shower  ? 

Oh!    Love  is  most  like  thee, 
The  love  of  woman;  quivering  to  the  blast 
'Through  every  nerve,  yet  rooted  deep  and  fast, 

'MidstLife's  dark  sea. 

359 


860 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  Faith — O,  is  not  faith 
Like  thee,  too,  Lily,  springing  into  light, 
Still  buoyantly  above  the  billows'  might, 

Through  the  storm's  breath? 

Yes,  link'd  with  such  high  thought, 
Flower,  let  thine  image  in  my  bosom  lie! 
Till  something  there  of  its  own  purity 

And  peace  be  wrought: 

Something  yet  more  divine 
Than  the  clear,  pearly,  virgin  lustre  shed 
Forth  from  thy  breast  upon  the  river's  bed,, 

As  from  a  shrine. 


THE  DESTKUCTION  OF  SENNACHEEIB. 


LOED  BTEON. 


HE  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold. 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  pnrple  and 
gold: 

And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on 
the  sea, 

When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Gal- 
ilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  xlutnmn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lav  wither' d  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast. 
And  breath' d  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd; 
And  the  eves  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew  still! 

And  there  lav  the  steed  with  his  nostrils  all  wide, 

But  through  them  there  roll" d  not  the  breath  of  his  pride; 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lav  white  on  the  turf, 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lav  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 

361 


362 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord! 


ANGEL  VISITS. 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


KE  ye  forever  to  your  skies  departed? 

Oh!  will  ye  visit  this  dim  world  no  raore? 
Ye,  whose   bright  wings  a  solemn  splendor 
darted 

Thi'ough  Eden's  fresh  and  flowering  shades 
of  yore? 

LS^^^  Now  are  the  fountains  dried  on  that  sweet  spot, 
tg>4  And  ye — our  faded  earth  beholds  you  not ! 

Yet,  by  your  shining  eyes  not  all  forsaken, 

Man  wander' d  from  his  Paradise  away; 
Ye,  from  forgetfulness  his  heart  to  waken. 

Came  down,  high  guests!  in  many  a  later  day. 
And  with  the  Patriarchs,  under  vine  or  oak, 
'Midst  noontide  calm  or  hush  of  evening,  spoke. 

From  you,  the  veil  of  midnight  darkness  rending, 
Came  the  rich  mysteries  to  the  Sleeper's  eye, 

That  saw  your  hosts  ascending  and  descending 
On  those  bright  steps  between  the  earth  and  sky; 

Trembling  he  woke,  and  bow'd  o'er  glory's  trace, 

And  worship'd,  awe-struck,  in  that  fearful  place. 

363 


364 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


By  Chebar's  brook  ye  pass'd,  such  radiance  wearing 

As  mortal  vision  might  but  ill  endure ; 
Along;  the  stream  the  livino;  chariot  bearino-, 

With  its  high  crystal  arch,  intensely  pure ! 
And  the  dread  rushing  of  your  wings  that  hour, 
Was  like  the  noise  of  waters  in  their  power. 

But  in  the  Olive  mount,  by  night  appearing, 

'Midst  the  dim  leaves,  your  holiest  work  was  done! 

Whose  was  the  voice  that  came  divinely  cheering. 
Fraught  with  the  breath  of  God,  to  aid  his  Son? — 

Haply  of  those  that,  on  the  moon-lit  plains. 

Wafted  good  tidings  unto  Syrian  swains. 

Yet  one  more  task  was  yours !  your  heavenly  dwelling 

Ye  left,  and  by  th'  unseal' d  sepulchral  stone, 
In  glorious  raiment,  sat;  the  weepers  telling. 

That  He  they  sought  had  triumph' d,  and  was  gone! 
Nowhave  ye  left  us  for  the  brighter  shore. 
Your  presence  lights  the  lonely  groves  no  more. 

But  may  ye  not,  unseen,  around  us  hover. 

With  gentle  promptings  and  sweet  influence  yet, 

Though  the  fresh  glory  of  those  days  be  over, 

WTien,  'midst  the  palm-trees,  man  your  footsteps  met? 

Are  ye  not  near  when  faith  and  hope  rise  high. 

When  love,  by  strength,  o'ermasters  agony? 

Are  ye  not  near  when  sorrow,  unrepining. 

Yields  up  life's  treasures  unto  Him  who  gave? 

When  martyrs,  all  things  for  His  sake  resigning, 
Lead  on  the  march  of  death,  serenely  brave  ? 

Dreams! — but  a  deeper  thought  our  souls  may  fill — 

One,  one  is  near — a  spirit  holier  still ! 


AFTEE  THE  STOEM. 


IIRS.  AXXIE  HOWE  f  BISHOP  )  THOMSON. 


X  niglit  TvithoTit  of  wind  and  rain. 

And  a  niglit  in  my  soul  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  niglit  without  of  darkness  and  gloom. 
And  a  night  in  my  sonl  becatise  of  a  tomb. 

A  lonely  tomb  on  the  liilkide  made, 
Under  the  oak  tree's  sheltering  shade. 

A  lowly  gi^ave  where  a  loved  one  lies, 

"With  the  shadow  of  death  on  brow  and  eyes; 

And  a  pallor  that  only  comes  when  life 
Is  ended,  with  all  of  mortal  strife. 

With  folded  hands  and  a  quiet  breast: — 
Dear  hands  that  never  before  knew  rest!- 

And  close  sealed  lijDs  that  never  again, 
"Will  make  the  way  of  life  so  plain 

To  faltering  feet :  nor  wHL  I  prove 
The  sweetness  of  all  their  words  of  love. 

TMiat  wonder  if  anguish  tills  my  breast, 
That  sadden  my  days  and  break  my  rest  I 

T\liat  wonder  if  life  and  its  pleasui'es  seem 
But  a  fitful  o:low.  and  a  fadino-  di'eam  I — 


365 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


That  I  long  in  the  same  low  bed  to  lie, 
Under  this  fair,  sweet  summer's  sky. 

Sleeping  my  last,  long,  dreamless  sleep. 
From  which  I  shall  never  awake  to  weep  ! 

But,  the  night  will  go  and  the  morning  beam, 
And  the  storm  die  out  as  fading  dream  ; 

And  the  blue  sky  smile  from  its  midnight  pall, 
With  the  beautiful  sunshine  over  all  : 

So,  out  of  my  heart  this  weary  pain, 

With  its  night  of  grief  and  its  storm  and  rain, 

Will  one  day  go,  when  the  morn  shall  rise, 
Over  the  hills  of  paradise  : 

And  my  loved  and  lost  shall  walk:  with  me, 
Under  the  shade  of  life's  fair  tree, 

With  a  beaming  eye  and  a  radiant  brow. 
Though  silent  and  cold,  and  moldering  now. 

Then  heart  be  still,  and  patient  wait ! 
For  soon  will  open  each  pearly  gate — 

Will  open  to  you  on  realms  of  bliss, 
And  closing  shut  out  the  griefs  of  this. 


THE  FLOVTEES'  TEAR. 


OR  March  the  violets  come; 

For  April,  daffodillies: 
I\Iay  and  June  the  roses  bloom, 

In  JuIt  the  lilies. ' 


''^  In  August  comes  the  golden-rod, 
Asters  in  September; 
In  October  leaves  grow  red, 
And  fall  od'  in  November. 

Then  the  flowers  go  to  sleep, 

In  their  warm  earth-houses: 
Every  one  through  all  the  long 
T\'inter  snow-time  drowses. 

But  when  Spring  comes,  up  they  start; 

Stretch  their  hands  a  minute — 
"Time  to  do  our  Summer's  work: 
Violets,  vou  beo-in  it  I " 


367 


A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 


[The  following  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems  ever  written 
on  the  subject.  The  author  is  supposed  to  have  been  Alfred 
Domett.] 


T  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty- three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea! 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars; 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain; 
Apollo,  Pallas,  J ove  and  Mars, 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign. 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago! 

'Twas  in  the  calm  and  silent  night! — 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight. 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home! 
Triumphal  arches  gleaming  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway; 
What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away. 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago! 


368 


A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 


Went  plodding  home  a  weary  booi'., 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half- shut  stable  door 
Across  his  path.    He  passed — for  nought 

Told  what  was  going  on  within;  < 
How  keen  the  stars!  his  only  thought 
The  air,  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago! 

O,  strange  indifference!  low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares; 
The  earth  was  still — but  knew  not  why. 

The  world  was  listening — unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede. 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  forever! 
To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 

Man's  doom  was  linked  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago! 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  thro"Sr 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness — charmed  and  holy  now! 
The  night  that  erst  no  shame  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given; 
For  in  that  stable  lay,  new  born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago. 


WE  HAVE  SEEN  HIS  STAR. 


HAT  babe  new-born  is  this 
That  in  a  manger  lies  ? 
Dear  on  her  lowly  bed 
His  happy  mother  lies. 

Watching  the  stars  of  old, 

Wise  men  marveled  at  night, 
When  the  gilded  azure  wide  unrolled 
With  new  and  wondrous  light. 

On  from  the  gates  of  mom 

They  followed  the  sign  afar, 
Saying:    "  Where  is  the  king  that  is  born? 

For  we  have  seen  his  star." 

Long  had  the  world  of  night 

Waited  the  promised  king; 
She  heard  'midst  tears  of  wild  delight 

The  sweep  of  the  angel's  wing. 

The  strength  of  sin  was  broke, 

Death's  fetters  scattered  far^ 
As  glad  the  heavenly  chorus  woke, 

"  Lo,  we  have  seen  his  star!" 


QUESTIONS. 


JIRS.  REBECCA  X.  HAZARD. 


^^jF  for  the  welfare  of  the  tree 

Some  branch,  though  filled  with  buddinf  Ife, 
Tossed  by  the  wind  in  dalliance  fi^ee, 
Is  made  to  feel  the  pruner's  knife, 
Shall  it  complain  ? 

And  if  to  make  the  border  gay, 

"When  tlowers  feel  the  breath  of  June, 
Some  plants  less  fair  be  cast  away 
To  fade  and  wither  all  too  soon, 
AMio  shall  say  nay? 

If  in  the  strife  for  highest  good 

'My  loss  should  be  another's  gain; 
If  some  weak  soul,  in  soiTOwing  mood. 

Its  peace  should  purchase  through  my  pain, 
Shall  I  repine? 

Oi'  if  some  thought  bom  of  my  woe 

A  benison  to  others  prove, 
Though  waked  to  life  by  fiercest  thi'oe, 

Should  it  another's  pang  remove, 
Can  I  be  sad? 

m 


372 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


The  answer's  plain,  and  yet,  ah  me! 

The  human  heart  hath  human  needs, 
And  when  'gainst  reason's  high  decree 

Por  self  and  happiness  it  pleads, 
What  can  avail  ? 


THE  SACRED  HARP. 

MRS.   F.   D.  HEMANS. 


How  shall  the  Harp  of  poesy  regain. 

That  old  victorious  tone  of  prophet-years, 
A  spell  divine  o'er  guilt's  perturbing  fears, 
And  all  the  hovering  shadows  of  the  brain  ? 
Dark  evil  wings  took  flight  before  the  strain, 
And  showers  of  holy  quiet,  with  its  fall. 
Sank  on  the  soul: — Oh!  who  may  now  recall 
The  mightv  music's  consecrated  reign? — 
Spirit  of  God!  whose  glory  once  o  eri  ^t' 
A  throne,  the  Ark's  dread  cherubim  bet'v\een, 
So  let  thy  presence  brood,  though  now  unseen , 
O'er  those  two  powers  by  whom  the  harp  is  strung — 
Feeling  and  Thought! — till  the  rekindled  chords 
Give  the  long-buried  tone  back  to  immortal  words! 


374 


GEMS  OF  POETIBY. 


THE  SILENT  CHILDKEN. 

ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS. 

HE  light  was  low  in  the  school-room, 
The  'day  before  Christmas  day, 
Had  ended.    It  was  darkening  in  the  gardeiij 
A^Tiere  the  silent  children  play. 

Throughout  that  House  of  Pity, 
The  soundless  lessons  said, 
The  noiseless  sport  suspended, 
The  voiceless  tasks  all  said. 

The  little  deaf-mute  children, 

As  still  as  still  could  be, 
Gathered  about  the  master. 

Sensitive,  swift  to  see. 

With  their  fine  attentive  fingers 

And  their  wonderful,  watchful  eyes— 

What  dumb  joy  he  would  bring  them 
For  the  Christmas  eve's  surprise! 

The  lights  blazed  out  in  the  school -room: 
The  play- ground  went  dark  as  death; 

The  master  moved  in  a  halo; 

The  children  held  their  breath. 


375 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


"I  show  you  DOW  a  wonder — 
The  Audiphone,"  he  said. 

He  spoke  in  their  silent  language, 
Like  the  language  of  the  dead. 

And  answering  spake  the  children, 
As  the  dead  might  answer  too; 

"But  what  for  us,  O  master? 
This  may  be  good  for  you; 

"But  how  is  our  Christmas  coming 

Out  of  a  wise  machine  ? 
For  not  like  other  children's 

Have  our  happy  hours  been; 

"And  not  like  other  children's 
Can  they  now  or  ever  be!" 

But  the  master  smiled  through  the  halo 
"Just  trust  a  mystery. 

"  O  my  children,  for  a  little 

As  those  who  suffer  must ! 

Great  'tis  to  bear  denial, 

But  grand  it  is  to  trust." 

Then  to  the  waiting  marvel 

The  listening  children  leant, 

Like  listeners,  the  shadows 

Across  the  school -room  bent. 

Quick  signalled  then  the  master, 
Sweet  sang  the  hidden  choir— 

Their  voices,  wild  and  piercing. 
Broke  like  a  long  desire 


THE  SILENT  CHILDREN. 


That  to  content  has  streng'thened. 
Glad  the  clear  strains  outrang 
Nearer  to  Thee^  oh^  nearer  1^'' 
The  pitying  singers  sang. 

"  JSfearer  to  Thee^  oh^  nearer^ 
Nearer^  fny  God^  to  theel'^ 

Awestruck,  the  silent  childi^en 
Hear  the  great  harmony. 

Happy  that  Christmas  evening: 
Wise  was  the  master's  choice, 

Who  gave  the  deaf-mute  childi'en 
The  blessed  human  voice. 

Wise  was  that  other  Master, 
Tender  His  pui'pose  dim, 

Who  gave  His  Son  on  Christmas, 
To  draw  us  "nearer  Him.*' 

We  are  all  but  silent  children, 
Denied  and  deaf  and  dumb 

Before  His  unknown  science — 

Lord,  if  Thou  wilt,  we  come  ! 


COUNSEL. 


M.   E.   W.  SHERWOOD. 


F  thou  dost  bid  thy  friend  farewell, 

Tho'  but  for  one  night  that  farewell  may  be, 
Press  thou  his   palm  with  thine! — how  canst 
thou  tell 
How  far  from  thee 

Fate  or  caprice  may  lead  his  feet, 
Ere  that  to-morrow  comes?  Men  have  been  known 
To  lightly  turn  the  corner  of  a  street. 
And  days  have  grown 

To  months,  and  months  to  lagging  years, 
Before  they  looked  in  loving  eyes  again. 
Parting,  at  best,  is  underlaid  with  tears. 
With  tears  and  pain. 

Therefore,  lest  sudden  death  should  come  between. 

Or  time  or  distance,  clasp  with  pressure  true. 
The  hand  of  him  who  goeth  forth: Unseen, 
Fate  goeth,  too. 

Yea,  find  thou  alway  time  to  say 

Some  earnest  word  between  the  idle  talk; 
Lest  with  thee  henceforth,  ever,  night  and  day. 
Regret  should  walk. 


378 


AFTEE-LIFE  OF  THE  POET'S  AVOEKS. 


JOHN  EEAT>. 

[The  following  felicitous  description  is  from  this  unfortunate 
poet's  Epistle  to  his  brother  George,  written  in  August,  1S16, 
which  appeared  in  his  first  volume  of  poems  in  1817.  After  de- 
scribing the  poet's  earthly  life  and  its  various  experiences,  Keats 
says:] 

g^^^^^J^HESE  are  the  living  pleasiuTs  of  the  bard; 
^5^y|§W5  But  richer  far  posterity's  award. 
^^'i^H^^>  ^Vhat  d'oes  he  inurrniu^  with  liis  latest  breath, 
^"^^x^^c^  AYliile  his  proud  eye  looks  through  the  film  of 
death? 

"^■i-J^  '      '^^^liat  though  I  leave  this  dtill  and  earthly 
mould. 

Yet  shall  my  spirit  lofty  converse  hold 

With  after  times.  —The  patriot  shall  feel 

My  stern  alarum,  and  unsheath  his  steel: 

Or.  in  the  senate  thunder  out  my  numbers 

To  startle  princes  from  th-eir  easy  slumbers. 

The  saa"^  ^vill  mingle  with  each  moral  theme 

My  liappy  thoughts  sententious;  he  will  teem 

With  lofty  periods  when  my  verses  tire  liim. 

And  then  I'll  stoop  fi'orn  heaven  to  inspire  him. 

Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  delight 

That  maids  will  .:ing  them  on  their  bridal  night 

S79 


380 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Gay  villagers,  upon  a  morn  of  May, 

When  they  have  tired  their  gentle  limbs  with  play, 

And  formed  a  snowy  circle  on  the  grass, 

And  placed  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  lass 

Who  chosen  is  their  queen, — with  her  line  head 

Crowned  with  flowers  purple,  white,  and  red: 

For  there  the  lily  and  the  musk-rose,  s'ighing 

Are  emblems  true  of  hapless  lovers  dying: 

Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  felt  trouble, 

A  bunch  of  violets  full  bloom,  and  double, 

Serenely  sleep: — she  from  a  casket  takes 

A  little  book, — and  then  a  joy  awakes 

About  each  youthful  heart, — with  stifled  cries, 

And  rubbing  of  white  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes: 

For  she's  to  read  a  tale  of  hopes  and  fears; 

One  that  I  fostered  in  my  youthful  years : 

The  pearls,  that  on  each  glist'ning  circlet  sleep. 

Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep. 

Lured  by  the  innocent  dimples.    To  sweet  rest 

Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  it  s  mother's  breast, 

Be  lulled  with  songs  of  mine.    Fair  world,  adieu! 

Thy  dales,  and  hills,  are  fading  from  my  view: 

Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide  spreading  pinions, 

Far  from  the  narrow  bounds  of  thy  dominions. 

Full  joy  I  feel,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air, 

That  my  soft  verse  will  charm  thy  daughters  fair, 

And  warm  thy  sous!" 


A  FLOWER  FOR  THE  DKID. 


OU  placed  this  flower  in  iier  hand,  you  say? 
This  pure,  pale  rose  in  her  hand  of  clay? 
Methinks  could  she  lift  her  sealed  eyes 
They  would  meet  your  own  with  a  grieved  sui'- 
prise. 

She  has  been  your  wife  for  many  a  year, 
When  clouds  hung  low  and  when  skies  were 
clear ; 

At  your  feet  she  laid  her  life's  glad  spring 
And  her  summer's  glorious  blossoming. 

Her  whole  heart  went  with  the  hand  you  won; 
If  its  warm  love  waned  as  the  years  went  on, 
If  it  chiird  in  the  grasp  of  an  icy  spell, 
What  was  the  reason  ?    I  pray  you  tell. 

You  cannot?  I  can!  and  beside  her  bier 
My  soul  must  speak,  and  your  soul  must  hear ; 
If  she  was  not  all  that  she  might  have  been, 
Hers  was  the  sorrow — yours  the  sin! 

^\Tlose  was  the  fault  if  she  did  not  grow 
Like  a  rose  in  the  summer  ?    Do  you  know  ? 
Does  a  lily  grow  when  its  leaves  are  chilled? 
Does  it  bloom  when  its  root  is  winter-killed? 

381 


382 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


For  a  little  while,  when  you  first  were  wed, 
Your  love  was  like  sunshine  around  her  shed; 
Then  a  something  crept  between  you  two, 
You  led  where  she  could  not  follow  you. 

With  a  man's  firm  tread  you  went,  and  came; 
You  lived  for  wealth,  for  power,  for  fame; 
Shut  into  her  woman's  work  and  ways, 
She  heard  the  nation  chant  your  praise. 

But  ah !  you  had  dropped  her  hand  the  while, 
What  time  had  you  for  a  kiss,  a  smile! 
You  two,  with  the  same  roof  overhead, 
Were  as  far  apart  as  the  sundered  dead! 

You  in  your  manhood's  strength  and  prime; 
She — worn  and  faded  before  her  time. 
'Tis  a  common  story.    This  rose  you  say 
You  laid  in  her  pallid  hand  to-day  ? 

When  did  you  give  her  a  flower  before  ? 
Ah,  well,  what  matter,  when  all  is  o'er? 
Yet  stay  a  moment;  you'll  wed  again; 
I  mean  no  reproach;  'tis  the  way  of  men. 

But  pray  you  think,  when  some  fairer  face 
Shines  like  a  star  from  her  wonted  place, 
That  love  will  starve  if  it  is  not  fed. 
That  true  hearts  pray  for  their  daily  bread. 


A  SINGING  LESSON. 


JEAN  INGELOW. 


NIGHTINGALE  made  a  mistake- 
She  sang  a  few  notes  out  of  tune— 
Her  heart  was  ready  to  break, 
And  she  hid  from  the  moon. 
She  wrung  her  claws,  poor  thing, 
But  was  far  too  proud  to  weep; 
She  tuck'd  her  head  under  her  wing, 
And  pretended  to  be  asleep. 

A  lark,  arm-in-arm  with  a  thrush, 

Came  sauntering  up  to  the  place; 
The  nightingale  felt  herself  blush, 

Though  feathers  hid  her  face. 
She  knew  they  had  heard  her  song. 

She  felt  them  snicker  and  sneer; 
She  thought  that  this  life  was  too  long, 

And  wished  she  could  skip  a  year. 

"  Oh,  nightingale,"  cooed  a  dove, 
"Oh,  nightingale,  what's  the  use? 

You,  a  bird  of  beauty  and  love. 
Why  behave  like  a  goose? 

383 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


Don't  skulk  away  from  our  sight 
Like  a  common,  contemptible  fowl; 

You  bird  of  joy  and  delight, 
Why  behave  like  an  owl  ? 

"  Only  think  of  all  you  have  done — 

Only  think  of  all  you  can  do;  - 
A  false  note  is  really  fun 

From  such  a  bird  as  j/ou! 
Lift  up  your  proud  little  crest; 

Open  your  musical  beak; 
Other  birds  have  to  do  their  best, 

But  you  need  only  speak." 

The  nightingale  shyly  took 

Her  head  from  under  her  wing, 
And,  giving  the  dove  a  look, 

Straightway  began  to  sing. 
There  was  never  a  bird  could  pass — - 

The  night  was  divinely  calm — 
And  the  people  stood  on  the  grass 

To  hear  that  wonderful  psalm. 

The  nightingale  did  not  care — 

She  only  sang  to  the  skies; 
Her  song  ascended  there, 

And  there  she  fixed  her  eyes. 
The  people  who  listened  below 

She  knew  but  little  about — 
And  this  tale  has  a  moral,  I  know, 

If  you'll  try  to  find  it  out. 


OTEE  THE  iir:'ER. 


'SASCTE    A.    vr.  PE.rEST. 

^|^^g|jJ'T;VEE  the  river  they  iDeckon  .o  me —  * 
I'iTO^pl':      Loved  ones  who've  crossed  to  the  faither 

'^\&!^Ji\  '         gleam  of  theii'  snowy  robes  I  see. 
tf^l^i^'^.V  their  voices  are  lost  in  the  rushing  tide. 

H^t^"      There's  one  ^vith  ringlets  of  sunny  gfold. 

And  eyes.      the  reflection  of  heaven's  own 
blue: 

■4 

He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold. 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view. 
"VTe  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there; 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see: 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river. 

yLx  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me  I 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Canied  another — the  household  pet: 
H-r  Ijrown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale — 

Darling  Minnie!  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  f antom  bark : 
TTe  watched  it  srlide  from  the  silver  sands. 


386 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark. 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side. 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be: 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail, 
And  lo!  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  heart; 

They  cross  the  stream,  and  are  gone  for  aye; 
We  may  not  sunder  the  vail  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day. 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea; 
Yet  somewhere,!  know,  on  the  unseen  shore 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river,  and  hill,  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar. 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail: 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand; 
I  shall  pass  from  sight,  with  the  boatman  pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land ; 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 


THE  E^T:ELASTIXG  ^ylEMOELiL. 


[The  following  exquisite  lines,  here  complete,  are  from  " Hymns 
of  Hope  and  Faith"  by  Horatius  Bonar,  one  of  the  religious  laureates 
of  "Auld  Scotia."] 

P  and  away,  like  the  dew  of  the  morning. 

Soaring  fi'om  earth  to  its  home  in  the  sun; 
So  let  me  steal  awav.  gently  and  lovingly. 
Only  remembered  by  what  I  have  done. 

My  name,  and  my  place,  and  my  tomb  all  for- 
gotten. 

The  brief  race  of  time  well  and  patiently  riui, 
So  let  me  pass  away,  peacefully,  silently, 
Only  remembered  by  what  I  have  done. 

Gladly  away  fi'om  this  toil  would  I  hasten, 
Up  to  the  crown  that  for  me  has  been  won ; 

Lmthought  of  by  man  in  rewards  or  in  praises, — 
Only  remembered  by  what  I  have  done. 

I'p  and  away,  hke  the  odors  of  sunset, 

That  sweeten  the  tv,"ilight  as  darkness  comes  on; 

So  be  my  life,— a  thing  felt  but  not  noticed. 
And  I  but  remembered  by  what  I  have  done. 

Yes,  like  the  fi-agi-ance  that  wanders  in  fi-eshness, 


387 


388 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


When  the  flowers  that  it  came  from  are  closed  up  and 
gone,— 

So  would  I  be  to  this  world's  weary  dwellers, 
Only  remembered  by  what  I  have  done. 

Needs  there  be  praise  of  the  love-written  record, 
The  name  and  the  epitaph  graved  on  the  stone? 

The  things  we  have  lived  for,— let  them  be  our  story, 
We,  ourselves,  but  remembered  by  what  we  have  done. 

1  need  not  be  missed,  if  my  life  has  been  bearing, 

(As  its  summer  and  autumn  moved  silently  on)  ^ 

The  bloom,  and  the  fruit,  and  the  seed  of  its  season; 
I  shall  still  be  remembered  by  what  I  have  done. 

I  n  e  l  not  be  missed, if  another  succeed  me, 

To  reap  down  those  fields  which  in  spring  I  have  sown.; 

He  who  plowed  and  who  sowed  is  not  missed  by  the  reaper, 
He  is  only  remembered  by  what  he  has  done. 

Not  myself,  bat  the  truth  that  in  life  I  have  spoken. 
Not  myself,  but  the  seed  that  in  life  I  have  sown. 

Shall  pass  on  to  ages,— all  about  me  forgotten, 

Save  the  truth  I  have  spoken,  the  things  I  have  done. 

So  let  my  living  be,  so  be  my  dying; 

So  let  my  name  lie,  unblazoned,  unknown; 
Unpraised  and  unmissed,  I  shall  still  be  remembered; 

Yes,— but  remembered  by  what  I  have  done. 


THINGS  OF  EEACTX 


EZATS. 


A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever: 
Its  loveliness  increases:  it  vrill  never 
Pass  into  nothingness:  bnt  still  Tvill  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  ns.  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  ^'eathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natm^es.  of  the  i:^loomy  days. 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er- darkened  ways 

Made  for  oui'  searching:   yes.  in  spite  of  all. 

Some  shape  of  beautv  moves  away  the  pall 

From  oui'  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun.  the  moon. 

Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep:  and  such  are  daftbdils 

With  the  D-reen  Avorld  thev  Hve  in:  and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves     coohng  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season:  the  mid-forest  l^^rake. 

Eich  with  a  spiinkHng  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms: 

And  such  too  is  the  gi-andeur  of  the  dooms 

"We  have  imacfined  for  the  mig'hty  dead; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read: 

3*9 


390 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


An.  endless  fonniain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  whether  there  be  shine  or  gloom  o'ercasl^, 
They  always  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 


CONTEASTS. 


A  short  June  nignt,  now  brightening  fast  to  dawn; 

A  house  with  doors  and  windows  open  wide; 
A  silent  sick-room,  where  a  dying  man 

Lies  prostrate  in  his  youth  and  manhood's  pride. 

A  bird's  sweet  carol,  entering  glad  and  shrill, 
A  bird  that  sings  of  Hope,  when  Hope  has  fled; 

And  the  sound  smites  the  watcher  with  a  thrill 
Of  agony — as  if  some  voice  had  said: 

^'  Weep  on — and  watch!  but  I  shall  sing  as  sweet 
Among  the  roses — though  thy  dear  ones  die; 

And  all  the  world  shall  pass  with  careless  feet, 
Although  thy  heart  be  broken  utterly!" 

O  little  bird!  how  tuneful  was  that  lay, 
That  fell  so  bitterly  on  mourner's  ears; 

Yet  it  was  summer — and  what  tongue  will  say; 
"'Twere  well  if  Nature  too  could  share  our  tears!" 


THKOUGH  NIGHT  TO  LIGHT. 


A.  LAIGHTON. 


Thy  love,  dear  heart,  till  closed  thy  lengthened  years^ 

Illumed  my  being  with  its  tender  flame. 

It  was  no  flickering  light  that  went  and  came, 
Constant  it  shone  through  varying  hopes  and  fears, 
Undimmed  by  sorrow  and  unquenched  by  tears. 

Though  it  hath  vanished  from  the  earth  away, 

And  left  a  deeper  shadow  on  the  day. 
Death  does  not  hide  it;  for,  as  one  who  peers 
Into  the  dark,  bewildered,  and  descries 
A  guiding  lamp  within  the  casement  set, 
Knowing  it  homeward  leads  his  weary  feet, 
So  I,  with  yearning  heart  and  wistful  eyes, 
As  in  a  vision  wonderful  and  sweet. 
Beyond  the  grave  behold  it  shining  yet. 


QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWEES. 


f  GOETHE. 

What  makes  the  time  run  short  ? 

Business  or  busy  sport. 
What  makes  it  long  to  you  ? 

Hands  with  no  work  to  do. 
What  brings  debts  quickly  in  ? 

Slowness  to  work  and  win. 
What  makes  the  glowing  gold  ? 

The  stroke  that  is  quick  and  bold. 
What  man  stands  near  the  throne  ? 

The  man  who  can  hold  his  own. 


393 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 


[What  could  be  finer  than  the  following  verses  penned  by  Lord 
Byron,  at  Malta,  September  14,  1809.  in  the  album  of  some  other- 
wise forgotten  beauty  ?] 

As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 

Some  name  arrests  the  passer  by; 
Thus,  when  thou  view'st  this  page  alone, 

May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 
Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year, 

Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead, 

And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 


ALBUM  VERSES. 


TAEIOUS  AUTHORS. 


SOLE^IN  mnrmnr  in  the  soul 

Tells  of  the  world  to  be, 
As  travelers  hear  the  billows  roll 
Before  they  reach  the  sea. 

TROM  bailey's  FESTUS. 

Night  brings  ont  stars  as  sorrow  shows  us  truths. 

It  is  much  less  what  we  do. 
Than  what  we  think,  which  fits  us  for  the  future. 

All  aspiration  is  a  toil; 
But  inspiration  cometh  fi'om  above, 
And  is  no  labor. 

Respect  is  what  we  owe;  love  what  we  give, 
And  men  would  mostly  rather  give  than  pay. 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years ;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths ; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 
AVe  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.    He  lives  most 
"Who  thinks  most — feels  the  noblest — acts  the  best. 


ado 


396 


GEMS  OF  POETRY. 


A  little  word  in  kindness  spoken, 

A  motion,  or  a  tear, 
Has  often  healed  the  heart  that's  broken, 

And  made  a  friend  sincere. 


The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 

Of  honest  fame  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 

— Byron. 

Truth, crushed  to  earth, will  rise  again, — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers; 

ButError,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

— Bryant, 

Whatsoe'er  of  beauty 
Yearns  and  yet  reposes. 
Blush,  and  bosom,  and  sweet  breath, 
Took  a  shape  in  roses. 


"Woman!"  With  that  word 
Life's  dearest  hopes  and  ♦memories  come, 
Truth,  beauty,  love,  in  her  adored, 
And  earth's  lost  paradise  restored, 
In  the  green  bower  of  home. 


Beware  the  bowl!  though  rich  and  bright 
Its  rubies  flash  upon  the  sight, 
An  adder  coils  its  depth  beneath. 
Whose  lure  is  woe,  whose  sting  is  death. 


ALBUM  VERSES. 


397 


A  smile  of  hope  from  those  we  love. 
May  be  an  angel  from  above; 
A  whispered  weleome  in  our  ears. 
Be  as  the  music  of  the  spheres; 
The  pressure  of  a  gentle  hand. 
Worth  all  that  glitters  in  the  land ; 
O!  trifles  are  not  what  they  seem. 
But  fortune's  voice  and  star  supreme. 


'Tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me. 

AMiile  fate  leaves  thy  love  to  me; 
'Tis  not  in  joy  to  charm  me. 

Unless  joy  be  shar'd  with  thee. 
One  minute's  dream  about  thee 

Were  worth  a  long  and  endless  year 
Of  waking  bliss  without  thee, 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear! 

— Tom  Moore. 

Only  the  actions  of  the  just 

Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

— /.  Shirley. 

I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more. 

— Sir  R.  Lovelace. 

To  you  no  soul  shall  bear  deceit. 

No  stranger  offer  wrong; 
But  friends  in  all  the  aged  you'll  meet, 

And  lovers  m  the  young. 

— R.  B.  Sheridan. 


398  GEMS  OF  POETRY. 

Reader,  attend, — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit; 
Know  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 

— R.  Burns. 


I  can  not  give  what  men  call  love; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above, 

And  the  heavens  reject  not, — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

— P.  B.  Shelley 


Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving. 

Than  doubt  one  heart  that  if  believed 

Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

O,  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth; 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 

— Finances  Anne  Kemble, 

So  live,  that,  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 


ALBOI  VERSES. 


399 


Scoiirgecl  to  Ms  dungeon:  but.  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach,  thr  grave. 
Like  one  who  vn^aps  the  di^apeiy  of  his  couch 
About  him.  and  Hes  down  to  pleasant  di^eams. 

— ir.  C.  Bryant, 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 

Do  noble  things,  not  di'eam  them  all  day  long: 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  for  ever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 

— C.  Kingsley* 

Ever  youi^  fiiend 

Till  time  shall  end: — 
Thi'oughout  this  world  of  joy  and  soitow. 

Tour  smile  may  make. 

For  your  dear  sake. 
More  bliss  than  living  else  could  boiTow. 

— Guess 


THE  FAREWELL  TO  MY  HARP. 


TOM  MOORE. 


Dear  Harp  of  my  Country !  in  darkness  I  found  thee, 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long. 
When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp,  I  unbound  thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song! 
The  warm  lay  of  love,and  the  light  note  of  gladness, 

Have  waken' d  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill; 
But  so  oft  hast  thou  echod  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 

That  e'en  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country!  farewell  to  thy  numbers, 

This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  iiwine, 
Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  fame  on  thy  slumbers, 

Till  touched  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine. 
If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 

Have  throbb'd  at  our  lay,  'tis  thy  glory  alone, 
I  was  hut  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 

And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  wak'd  was  thy  own  I 


400 


FIRST  LINES. 

PAGEc 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun  .._  291 

A.  drop  of  spray  cast  from  the  Infinite   _  95 

A  little  word  in  kindness  spoken   .323 

A  nightingale  made  a  mistake     383 

A  night  without  of  wind  and  rain  _  .365 

A  short  June  night,  now  brightening  fast  to  dawn  391 

A  smile  of  hope  from  those  we  love    397 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers  -   149 

A  solemn  murmur  in  the  soul   395 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever  -    389 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea    _  _  40 

A  youth  went  forth  to  serenade    119 

Above  a  checkered  table  they  bent   207 

Afar  in  the  gleaming  Orient,  the  amber  gates  swing  wide  181 

Ah!  swan  of  slenderness,  dove  of  tenderness  246 

"Alas!  my  noble  boy!  that  thou  should'st  die!"   -.258 

All  aspiration  is  a  toil-     .395 

All  day  in  the  deepening  sunlight    218 

And  is  the  swallow  gone?         --   220 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  aud  fair    .327 

An  old  farm-house,  with  meadows  wide    -.101 

Are  ye  for  ever  to  your  skies  departed  363 

As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth  —  -.215 

As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone      394 

Away,  away,  through  the  sightless  air   115 

Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your  flight  185 

Beautiful  faces  are  those  that  wear   26 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  wfll  be  clever  399 

Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived  87 

401 


402  FIRST  LINES. 

Beware  the  bowl!  though  rich  and  bright   396 

Bird  of  the  wilderness   165 

Blest  pair  of  syrens,  pledges  of  heaveu's  joy  .  275 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind   .226 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead   167 

But  the  star  that  shines  in  Bethlehem.  _  214 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain    .282 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river  1  __.  73 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night  _   339 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country!  in  darkness  I  found  thee  400 

Did  you  hear  that  sound  of  woe   82 

Drifting  along  the  river,  all  gleaming  _  303 

Ever  your  friend   399 

Farewell !  since  never  more  for  thee  86 

Father,  whate'er  of  earthly  bliss   _  130 

Folks  were  happy  as  days  were  long..  36 

For  March  the  violets  come  -  --.367 

Gay,  guiltless  pair-    _  -.261 

God  hath  His  solitudes,  unpeopled  yet   33 

God  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  _  _315 

God  speaks  to  hearts  of  men  in  many  ways   123 

God  willed:  I  was.    What  he  had  planned  I  wrought-  95 

Go,  lovely  rose !-  -  -   29 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee  252 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings  226 

Harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands    277 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee   -143 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth.  _  .102 

He  meets,  by  heavenly  chance  express   122 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead  -  -  -347 

High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine  242 

His  falchion  flashed  along  the  Nile   .--325 

How  richly  glows  the  water's  breast-  -267 

How  shall  the  Harp  of  poesy  regain.  -  372 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest   187 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright  28 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  .287 

I  cannot  give  what  men  call  love  ~  .  398 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern  93 


FIRST  lilNES.  403 

I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much  -   397 

1  count  myself  in  nothmg  else  so  happy   195 

I  know  not  what  awaits  me  _  161 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,  with  little  thought  of  care  63 

I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this    331 

I  saw  thee  weep — the  big  bright  tear  _  324 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie   135 

I  sit  to-night  as  audience  to  my  thoughts   105 

T  stand  by  the  river,  so  peacefully  shining  _  85 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight    221 

I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence    64 

I  was  not,  and  I  was  conceived--    95 

I'd  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me  _  78 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song....,  293 

If  for  the  welfare  of  the  tree -    -  371 

If  I  had  known  in  the  morning.   75 

If  in  one  poor  bleeding  bosom    ,  203 

If  there  should  come  a  time  as  well  there  may  49 

If  thou  dost  bid  thy  friend  farewell  -.378  / 

In  olden  time  there  lived  a  king    76 

In  the  dome  of  my  sires  as  the  clear  moonbeam  falls  273 

In  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard    24 

In  the  wood,  love,  when  we  parted  -  -.125 

It  is  much  less  what  we  do    -395 

It  IS  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs   335 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night  -  --  ---  -368 

Lay  my  babe  upon  my  bosom   271 

Lead,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom  -  35 

Life !  1  know  not  what  thou  art  -  - .  25 

Light  after  darkness      241 

Live  while  you  live,"  the  epicure  would  say   -196 

Lonely  and  wild  it  rose.--   248 

Look  on  his  pretty  face  for  just  one  mmute  -280 

Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love  .  -  -  343 

Meek  dwellers  'mid  yon  terror-stricken  cliffs  -  333 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill  -266 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you   342 

My  Father  is  rich  in  houses  and  lands    200 

Mysterious  night!  when  our  first  parent  knew   269 

My  life  is  in  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf   -  -  25 

evei  a  word  is  said  -  -  67 


404  FIRST  LINES. 

Night  brings  out  stars  as  sorrow  shows  us  truths.  395 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers    .234 

No  shoes  to  hide  her  tiny  toes   270 

Not  in  the  swaying  of  the  summer  trees  237 

Not  she  with  traitorous  kiss  her  Savior  stung   ..199 

Not  that  from  life  and  all  its  woes    254 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger  168 

O  a  wonderful  stream  is  the  river  Time  -.263 

O  brown  lark,  loving  cloud-land  best-   336 

Oh!  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much    357 

Oh!  beautiful  thou  art    359 

O  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem   178 

Oh!  the  old  clock  of  the  household  stock  321 

Old  fashioned,  yes,  I  know  they  are   89 

One  morning,  when  Spring  was  in  her  teens.  - .  -  179 

Only  the  actions  of  the  just..   397 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake    23 

O  soul  of  mine,  look  oat  and  see    96 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd   45 

Our  sweetest  and  most  bitter  hours  are  thine   88 

Over  hill,  over  dale     225 

Over  the  river  on  the  hill    120 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me   385 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow   308 

Precious  and  lovely,  I  yield  her  to  thee   -  46 

Reader,  attend, — whether  thy  soul      398 

Respect  is  what  we  owe;  love  what  we  give   395 

Ring  on,  ring  on,  sweet  Sabbath  bell.    80 

Seated  one  day  at  the  organ    141 

See  what  a  lovely  shell   .-209 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night.  310 

Silence  filled  the  courts  of  heaven     197 

Sing  a  low  song !   ---   160 

Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares   228 

Slowly  the  night  is  falling   -  -   - 169 

Softly  fell  the  touch  of  twilight  on  Judea's  silent  hills  126 

So  live,  that,  wlien  thy  summons  comes  to  join  ..-398 

Some  beauties  yet  no  precepts  can  declare   155 

"Sometime,"  we  say,  and  turn  our  eyes   66 

Sometime,  when  all  life's  lessons  have  been  learned  -  61 


FIRST  LINES.  405 

South  Mountain  towered  upon  our  right,  far  off  the  river  lay. -243 

Spirit  that  breathest  througli  my  lattice,  thou  313 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands    _  235 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold   361 

The  Beautiful  City !    Forever    68 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day   55 

The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more  . . . .    396 

The  earth  grows  dark  about  me  .     111 

The  fairest  action  of  our  human  life   319 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river    .114 

The  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung     . . ,  .231 

The  light  was  low  in  the  school-room    375 

The  Lord  descended  from  above.  -   233 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat  189 

The  old  farm  gate  hangs  sagging  down    351 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose  -   17 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls   177 

The  Spring  is  here — the  delicate-footed  May    250 

The  surging  era  of  human  life  forever  onward  rolls  211 

The  touches  of  her  hands  are  like  the  fall    .  -  44 

The  weary  teacher  sat  alone    138 

The  world  is  full  of  glorious  likenesses   .192 

There  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide   iii 

There  be  none  of  beauty's  daughters    306 

There  comes  a  time  or  soon  or  late  265 

There  is  many  a  rest  on  the  road  of  life   47 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet   140 

There's  a  beautiful  face  in  the  silent  air.   341 

There  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground  229 

These  are  the  living  pleasures  of  the  bard    379 

They  drive  home  the  cows  from  the  pasture  51 

This  globe  pourtray'd  the  race  of  learned  men..  289 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn  _  103 

This  motto  I  give  to  the  young  and  the  old   -311 

Thou  com'st  in  beauty,  on  my  gaze  at  last.-  .-344 

Three  Poets,  m  three  distant  ages  born  -236 

Thy  love,  dear  heart,  till  closed  thy  lengthened  years   392 

Thy  voice  is  like  the  sea's  voice  when  it  makes   292 

"Till  death  us  part"  -   107 

"Tired i"  Oh  yes!  so  tired,  dear..  32 

Tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me  397 


406  FIRST  LINES. 

To  him  Tvho,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds  255 

To  you  no  soul  shall  bear  deceit   .397 

Too  la^.e  I  strayed,  forgive  the  crime   .,  .260 

Touch  us  gently.  Time   _   43 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  will  rise  again -  -.  396 

Twas  the  eve  before  Christmas ;  "Good  night ! "  had  been  said  296 

Two  eyes  I  see  whose  sunny  blue  .--    100 

Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring   153 

Under  the  greenwood  tree     226 

Unhappy  White,  while  life  was  in  its  spring   3-  6 

Up  and  away,  like  the  dew  of  the  morning   387 

Upon  the  sadness  of  the  sea    224 

Utterer  of  many  thoughts  which  else  were  still   309 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame   _   307 

We  all  have  waking  visions — I  have  mine  172 

Weary  hearts!  weary  hearts!  by  cares  of  life  oppressed  38 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths  395 

We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  hand     70 

What  babe  new-born  is  this  370 

What  is  noble?    'Tia  the  finer      317 

What  makes  the  time  run  short?  -  -  393 

Whatsoe'er  of  beauty  .     396 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan   -.-  133 

What  would  I  have  you  do?    I'll  tell  you,  kinsman  330 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent   152 

When  the  humid  shadows  hover  over  all  the  starry  spheres  304 

When  the  mists  have  rolled  in  splendor   239 

When  the  song's  gone  out  of  your  life    .  -   -   218 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought  -188 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  lurk  I   -..  225 

Where  the  rocks  are  gray  and  the  shore  is  steep  -  -  285 

"Which  shall  it  be,  whicb  shall  it  be?"   204 

Who  has  robbed  the  oce  m  cave    99 

Who  will  care?   -  -  268 

Wing'd  mimic  of  the  woods!  thou  motley  fool  -  113 

Within  the  flower-lined  casket  she  was  laid    124 

Within  the  sun-flecked  shadows  of  a  forest  glade  31 

Woman ! "    With  that  word    -  -  -  396 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king   19 


Fir.ST  LIXES.  407 

Wonlclst  thon  from  sorrow  find  a  sweet  relief  -247 

•■Yon  have  heard,"'  said  a  yonth  to  his  sweetheart  who  stood —  18 

Yon  placed  this  flower  in  her  hand,  yon  say   381 

Yon  remember  the  time  when  I  first  songht  yonr  home  -318 


Our  Bover. 


THE  AUDIPHONE, 


GOOD  NEWS  FOR  THE  DEAF. 

An  Instrument  that  Snables  Deaf  Persons  to  Hear  Ordinary  Con^ 
versation  Readily  Through  the  Medium  of  the  Teeth,  and 
those  Born  Deaf  and  Dumb  to  Hear  and  Learn 
to  Speak.     How  it  is  Done,  Etc. 

The  Audiphone  is  a  new  instrument  made  of  a  peculiar 
composition,  possessing  the  property  of  gathering  the  faint- 
est sounds  (somewhat  similar  to  a  telephone  diaphragm), 
and  conveying  them  to  the  auditory  nerve,  through  the 
medium  of  the  teeth.  The  external  ear  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  in  hearing  with  this  wonderful  instrument. 

It  is  made  in  the  shape  of  a  fan,  and  can  be  used  as  such, 
if  desired. 

When  adjusted  for  hearing,  it  is  in  suitable  tension  and 
the  upper  edge  is  pressed  slightly  against  one  or  more  of 
the  upper  teeth. 

Ordinary  conversation  can  be  heard  with  ease.  In  most 
cases  deafness  is  not  detected, 

The  Audiphone  is  Patented  throughout  the  civilized  world. 

I*       I  O  E : 

Conversational,  small  ,   $6.00 

Conversational,  large   -    $6.00 

The  Audiphone  will  be  sent  to  any  address,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
RHODES  &  McCLURE, 

Agents  for  the  World, 
152  DEARBORN  STREET,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 

(Audiphoue  Parlors,  Adjacent  to  the  Office.) 


DUKE  UNIVERSITY 
LIBRARY 


DURHAM,  NORTH  CAROLINA 
27706 


